


Dearly Beloved

by Ladylizaelliott



Category: 101 Dalmatians (1996)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladylizaelliott/pseuds/Ladylizaelliott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alonso kept his silence. He could find no words, not a single question or suggestion he could utter which would resolve their delicate situation. Only to say ‘yes’ and to yield to any action or whim which might strike her fancy. For a moment he forgot that he was a paid assistant; he acted and thought no differently than he would if his lover had been in such a state before him. And before he could answer for himself, Alonso knew that she was his lover in a sense. Alonso devoted his life and his care to her and, in a gesture far exceeding the expectations of the job, his heart as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interviews

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are based on the creations of Dodie Smith from the original story 101 Dalmatians with heavy influence from John Hughes' 1996 screenplay, the junior edition novel by Anne Mazer (adapted directly from John Hughes’ screenplay) and Glenn Close's performance. In other words, my love letter to an incredible interpretation of the iconic Disney villain.

“66th Floor, take the third elevator to the left.” The bellman said, pointing towards a tall black and white glass building which was perched on top of a wide set of stone steps like a vulture on the tip of a gravestone. It certainly had the appearance of an office building from the austere surroundings and not a house of art.  
But there, Alonso Marzilli spied the clue he needed. A simple, masculine sign in gold font bearing in proud, sharp lettering ‘The House of DeVil’ hung across the open concrete square like a taut bowstring across the façade. 

He wore the wrong tie. He couldn’t manage to make it lay flat. Adjusting his waistcoat Alonso put one shaky foot before the other and made his way into the sparkling vestibule. The third to the right, he repeated to himself in a whisper. No, left! The floors added insult to his injured shoes by making them squeak across the marble tiles. Haplessly he turned his dark eyes to the multitude of elevators tucked into the far corner. There on the left he spied the third set of doors. It was a garish white elevator door printed over in bold black and white stripes. The button glowed red like a devil’s eye when he at last found the courage to push his index finger into it.

He hated interviews.

When the elevator doors opened, to his astonishment, the chamber within was covered in mirrors, dizzying his eyes to the stripes reflecting from the door which retreated to allow his entrance. He knew it was the right one. The ad after all said the business was a house of high fashion. He had already lost ten minutes trying to find the building itself, the area was not as familiar to him as the business district across from the Thames. During his pursuit, Alonso had passed the tourists in queue for the famous site of executions; their tourist status evident by their tightly gripped maps held out in front of them at incorrect angles. It was only when he turned onto Mincing Lane, when the people passing by were women clad in short, fur trimmed coats carrying long bolts of fabric when Alonso remembered that this was not only a building for business, but fashion. And not just any fashion, but fashions exclusively in fur.

Alonso had no opinion of fur. It was a luxury. Luxuries were not commonplace to him as commodities he could call his own. From his years of trying his hand at service work, an occasional chauffeur job, or lastly a personal assistant, Alonso had for years had luxuries which were always at an arms’ reach but always at bay from his possession. After all, where would an out of work driver get the money to live stylishly? Or more commonplace to the excesses he had witnessed, bestow lavish offerings such as furs and flowers to the women he fancied? No point to that either, he thought. Only enough time to care for his well-being let alone hold responsibility for a woman’s. He had yet to find the woman who laid claim to his attention and thus become the recipient of his hard earned wages. Alonso looked, but after so many years, he could scarce define himself what it was he was looking for in what everyone called their soul mate. 

Alonso watched the numbers from the elevator toll ascend. 44, 45, 46….

Who knew if he could even use words to define his feelings? Alonso was not a virtuoso with his words. He had suffered a stammer all his life and even in adulthood, could not seek out the cause and break his humiliating habit. Failing with his words was an unchangeable fact of his daily life much as the recession of his amber brown hair which daily crept further and further away from his eyes. 

47, 48, 49….

Alonso turned and faced the mirror behind him. Alonso smoothed his hair and tugged down the front of his coat which snagged a loose thread from his sleeve. Panicked momentarily, he curled it around his fingers and yanked downward, making it longer and more unruly than before. What was I thinking with this waistcoat? Then again, he thought, perhaps no one cares what a prospective valet wears to an interview even if it is at the famous House of DeVil. Momentarily he shuddered at the thought of having to wear fur as a uniform. He did not care for fussy, extravagant clothes. He had no opinion for the clothes on his back which had come to represent function rather than fashion. This was simply another fact of his miniscule financial existence. And besides, driving to and fro leaves no time to idle gazing greedily through the pages of fashion magazines for the latest trend, even the ones his former mistress had so often hurled lazily towards the front of the limousine. Alonso had never found the time to peruse them. No doubt his former employer knew who Cruella DeVil was. 

Alonso felt himself come over cold with fear. He didn’t even know what Cruella DeVil looked like.

50, 51, 52….

What if he were to pass her in the hallway? What indignities could he suffer being the only one who knew the least about the one person he wanted to impress the most? Alonso turned away from the mirror. He decided to distract himself from his dangerous pangs of insecurity by counting the number of stripes on the door. Focusing his attention, Alonso noticed each stripe was different from the other, not in large ways, but brushstrokes. They had been painted; by hand no doubt. What wealth, he imagined. Shouldn’t we all like art to surround us even in transit? Whilst dreaming for a moment his eyes lost the bias over his senses and still ascending, Alonso at last could hear traces of music. A long, drawn note of a single violin, unlike music he had heard before. It was refined, and a little frightening.

53, 54, 55, 56….

Take a de…de…deep breath, he whispered to himself.

An operatic voice came through the speakers: a lush, elongated phrase of trolls and arpeggios. 

This was too much.

57, 58, 59, 60….

What am I doing here?

61, 62, 63, 64….

Buck up old chap, you need the jjj….jjjob. Remember that.

65.

Alonso held his breath.

66.

The doors gasped open.


	2. The House of De Vil

No, Alonso thought. It couldn’t be.

Alonso felt as though he had stepped into a room which came straight from the pages of an interior decorating magazine, or a single room from Harrods’s which demonstrated art deco in blue, black and white. The lights resembled torches, painted in different stripes, spots, lines and patterns which he immediately recognized as animal prints. A chandelier of the most irregular arrangement consisted of arcs, sticks, and pointed bits painted bright white hung over his head. Alonso stepped out of the elevator after the toll warned him the doors would shut. Standing under the chandelier Alonso stared up to get a closer look. It was made from bones. Shuddering a bit within his coat he stepped forward into the narrow room. He felt the floor beneath him sink under his shoes like quicksand. Alonso looked down at a long black rug under his feet which was so thickly woven that it wrapped both sides of his shoes as if it meant to swallow his feet whole. He was standing on a long bear pelt. Holding his stance firm, Alonso looked across the room. A glass table lay before him with what he could only fain imagine to be an infant dinosaur skeleton recreated in iron. It stood beside a jet black phone which at the present moment, rang on and on completely unmanned, glittering on and off like Christmas lights. Christmas was a welcome thought to ease his stress. To his right a row of lights forming a triangle framed what he could only assume to be a door by the break down the middle. Alonso was taken aback when the line split in two, revealing the room beyond for a brief moment before a short, if a little flustered, blonde woman of average height rushed past him to the phone. The carpet was so plush he didn’t even hear her feet as she strode to the desk. She fell into the chair, forcing the receiver to her ear.

“House of DeVil, Miss Green speaking?” She said, her pretty voice making Alonso’s hurried heartbeat relax on the instant.

“No, may I take a message. Yes, yes. No, I cannot say for sure monsieur, thank you, I will notify Ms. DeVil.”

Without missing a beat or a breath, the blonde woman approached him, straightening the hem of her neat black dress.

“I must beg your pardon, we’ve no man for the desk and I heard it! So sorry what can I help you with?” She said, folding her hands together in the air.

Alonso felt the words come to his lips but struggled:

“The…the valet position. I un….un understand the calls were to be made here.” He uttered.

“Yes, valet, right, I forgot we posted that yesterday, the job would be a bit more than that at the moment if that adds to the appeal.” The lady said with a laugh to her voice. “Please  
come in, you can wait inside. Miss DeVil is sure to see you between appointments.”

“Miss….miss DeVil?” Alonso whispered worriedly.

“Yes, she insists on interviewing prospects herself.” The lady said confidently. “Such a confidential job after all!” She said adjusting her glasses which framed her lovely blue eyes.

“Thank you miss, Miss?-

“Miss Campbell-Green, Anita Campbell-Green,” She said. “Please come in.”

The doors burst open again this time Alonso followed Anita into the room beyond.

If the mere entrance something off the pages of an editorial, than the main floor was almost certainly a vision of the wildest, most refined and luxurious fancy even Alonso could not even own to imagining. Here at last, behind the stone and glass façade he had thought so familiar to the houses of business he had been accustomed to, Alonso realized that now he was in foreign territory. Here he began to feel sweat in his palms. This was the House of DeVil.

He had never seen such a ceiling in his life. Glass panes pointed up towards the sky shaping the room like a long triangle, lit from behind so the room was filled with bright, artificial light. The gleaming silver edges of the windows ended at crisp white walls. The long moldings along the room paired with the lighting gave the illusion that the room stretched for miles like a long road towards a white horizon. The room bustled with people, all dressed in black save for an odd accessory of red such as a scarf, belt or even shoes. The sound of furiously motioning pencils caught his ears, and as he saw people bustle to and fro he realized no footsteps sounded on the plush carpet. There was music all around him. He was not ignorant to art after all, and Alonso knew here and now was the very hearts and souls of the industry. These were the artists beyond all. Secretly he already resented Cruella DeVil for her so called claim to them. Get used to that, he thought, you are after all coming offering your entire life to the task of bringing her from house to office; or wherever else a woman’s fancy may procure. Only when he cast his eyes away from the source of the light did Alonso see that there were no steps to ascend, no corners to turn, only a long single room where in an instant he realized he was standing on a runway. He felt everyone’s eyes fall on him. And what eyes, he thought, those including the blue eyes possessed by Miss Anita Campbell-Green. There were tall women that Alonso knew immediately to be models by their perfect complexions, lean bodies and judging stares. He turned back towards Anita. She had a kind demeanor and a gentle smile as her right arm pointed towards the end of the runway.

The designers each had stations and desks lining the walls with slender, long limb mannequins heralding the fashions from their minds as their calling card. Some people had name tags for identification; this breed of man had ensembles. Each one more spectacular than the last, all in various prints seen on the animals he had grown up observing in zoos, books and other exotic sources of what else the world outside England had to offer him. He at first thought it cruel; killing such masterful creatures of beauty for their skins but in the instant he squelched the thought. This was simply too beautiful, too masterly in the handling of their exquisite shells not to be looked at with anything but awe. He caught eyes with Anita Campbell-Green again. Her relaxed demeanor and attitude was perfectly at home between the mannequins. The slow pace he labored following her was no impediment to her confident tread down the runway.

How thankful he was it was carpet after all. His recalled the pathetic noise his shoes had made on the tiles and clenched his fists to combat his sense of unworthiness. They reached the end of the hallway where three more triangle shaped doors crowded the end of the passage. There, stepping down to her station, Anita drew up a chair next to the edge of the runway and set it down.

“Wait here; I am not sure how long she will be. The Chesterton Trials are in two weeks and her selection is this morning. If the rest of us seem in a bit of a panic it is because today, every man is for himself.” She said, never losing the smile to her face as she set her arms down and walked away.

She disappeared into one of the doors.

Alonso sat very still, feeling the button of his coat pull tight against his waist. He turned around back towards the runway where from his seat, was at the same level as his shoulders when sitting. He took a closer look. There were over eight mannequins on each side of the runway. Sixteen designers, he counted. An immense team for such a house, he observed. Then again, he was sitting in the aorta of the House of DeVil. Alonso kept his hands folded in his lap. His bare hands reminded him of the loss of gloves; the loss of his employment. The air of the room began to buzz further when he heard the sound of another door open, this one the largest of the triangle doors directly in the center of the hallway. The two doors parted and out came two gentlemen, long lines of tape was hanging from their necks and their hair looked more than a little ruffled by their shaking hands attempting to straighten them. One of them, a short full haired European looking man with dark features came jolting out and stepped to the side of the runway. The other, assumed by Alonso to be an assistant by his quick response to the actions of the other, followed close behind.

He heard the sound of woman within the room; her voice at first so sharp he scarce understood what she uttered. Than before the sound could make explanation by the arrival of the source Anita came out from the other door and just in time, for nearly running into her was something Alonso was in no way prepared to encounter.

The first impression was of a woman of unremarkable height, her entire face blocked by a large red hat brim which swallowed everything visible in her face to her collarbone. The gown told quite another story however, Alonso observed pleasurably, revealing glimpses of her pale skin beneath what looked like translucent stripes. The pieces reminded him of a puzzle, or scales, tracing out every curve of the woman’s short frame elongating her stance as she stepped out into the hallway and began to make her way towards the steps. Her shoulders were wrapped in short, bright red fur sleeves which segmented to the elbow leading to long red gloves, making her slender hands dazzle against the vivid black and white contrast of her hips. From under a sea of waving, overlapping layers of zebra striped skirts which gathered at the line of her knees, she pointed a bright red shoe with an impossibly high heel onto the stair. The instant she set her foot up onto the first step, the woman arched her neck upwards and revealed her face.

Cruella DeVil.

No one had ever told Alonso what it felt like to fall in love. He was never told what happened when his mother first set eyes on his father; if she could even remember when he happened. He had known several girls which he noticed, but never transfixed him. This was far from transient. Alonso was lost.

Cruella DeVil.

Her eyes looked straight ahead towards the end of the runway; a dazzling green even more fixating than Anita Campbell-Greens who he noticed minutes before. Her face, upon a few more seconds of observation, was not as he had anticipated from the womanly curves of her body. She was beautiful, there was no doubt, but her power of expression defied any predisposition he had of feminine charm and demureness. She possessed a strong jaw, a sharp pointed nose, and thinly trimmed brows which framed her eyes brilliantly. The smooth white face was touched with blush, and dark strong lines of mascara highlighted every lash around her eyes adding ammunition to her stare. The lips, Alonso observed as he felt himself boil in his chair, were the brightest most brazen shade of red he had ever seen. When she walked past his shoulders the hem of her gown brushed his face. Nothing had ever been more sensual to him. He barely recognized the feeling matching that description as Alonso rose from his chair nearly unconsciously. The gown made no noise as she walked past. His eyes followed every segmented line tracing the perfect slope of her waist which led to bright red laces and hoops which fastened her into the gown. Her bare open back and shoulders were still blocked atop her neck by the oddly shaped hat which sat atop her head, covering her hair in the process. When she reached the middle of the long runway, she turned sharply back towards the room where she came. When she parted her thick lips, her voice cracked as harshly and without warning like lightening.

“Jean-Christian!” She bellowed. Alonso sat on the instant, feeling the command towards him and shrinking under the power of her voice. Alonso let his eyes overtake the other four senses, losing his words as he noticed the effortless, risqué manner in which the pleats of the gown folded between her breasts. A shoe entered his peripheral vision as the short, European looking man approached her.

“Is this the smallest it will go?” Cruella spoke resolutely, settling her blood red hands across her left hip.

“I believe so, madam, I didn’t dare make it-

“Dare, you imbecile there are more important things than comfort!” She quipped.

She was electrifying.

The assistant approached Cruella DeVil with his fingers curved in an arc reaching towards the red string which closed the gown. The closure followed harmoniously the perfectly sunken line of her spine which disappeared at just the torturous spot to entice his eyes. Alonso was overcome momentarily when he saw the knots loosen, and briefly even more of her pristine flesh escaped into view. Than unknown to the procedure of such a garment, was aghast when the assistant without a moment’s reticence tugged both ends of the lines in his fingers. Cruella set both red hands onto her hips and let out a moan which made him tremble. Her waist shrunk under his fingers. Cruella raised her right hand above her head and pulled the hat off of her head as she steadied her balance; the force from the man’s hands setting her balance uncertain for only a fleeting moment, each tug seeming to elicit a stronger and even more unashamedly erotic sound from the couturier’s throat.

He felt ashamed to have been privy to such a sight.

“Oah!” Cruella timed her cry to the action of tossing the hat away from her person. “That will do, enough!” She said raising her hands into her hair which Alonso finally came to  
observe was not natural. At first he thought it for sure to be a wig, but on closer inspection he was proved wrong. Short unruly curls which, as if she had fallen asleep laying her head in ink was jet black to one side of her face and bright white on another, framed her pale countenance. Her red gloved fingers spread across the sides of her face as she brushed her wayward strands aside. The assistant, as if by clockwork, approached her holding a full length mirror in his hands and tilting it towards his subject. Cruella turned and faced the mirror. Pitching one shoulder at a time towards the mirror to catch the gown at both angles, she ran her hands along her now minimized waist. Alonso’s eyes followed her fingertips as they traced the seams of the gown, rounding over her hips and settling at the curve at the base of her back before climbing up her waist and reaching the apex at each of her breasts.

“Strong choice, Jean-Christian,” Cruella DeVil said, her tones marginally softer than she had uttered before.

“But…” The designer whispered hesitantly, unwilling to second guess his own work especially when donned by his ruler. The European man’s hands trembled as he gestured to bring another mirror from the design floor. The assistant nearly stumbled up the steps, holding a full length mirror like a construction worker would hold a plank of wood over his shoulders. Hastily, he set it down behind the muse. Alonso could now see three Cruella DeVil’s from his vantage point. He remained on his knees on the chair Anita had left for him; nearly setting his hands onto the floor like a curious neighbor would peer over a fence. Cruella held out her left hand and made a gesture with her fingers like the motion of scissors. Like a military drill another man, who had reentered the room in Alonso’s peripheral vision approached Cruella with a long red object he could not recognize at first. The man pulled out a gold case and opened it between his hands. It was lined with cigarettes. With the deftness of a machine the man set a fresh cigarette into the red holder and lit it all within the same motion. He offered it to Cruella DeVil with the same flustered demeanor and humbleness as a lover would offer flowers.

“Thank you.” Cruella said sternly. “But is it too formal?” She continued, taking a long drawn inhale of her cigarette and letting the smoke out her nostrils like a dragon. With the full ensemble, Alonso realized, she really did look like a mythical creature. A siren, a Medusa, everything he had never expected to make him feel the way he did. Everything he had ever been told as a child to fear and treat as an abhorrence of nature.

He never felt so invigorated.

“The trials seem to bring different people every year.” Another designer chimed from the background. The sweet voice Alonso recognized on the instant to be that of Anita Campbell-Green. She spoke softly and with no sense of authority or dominance in opinion. Alonso could see she was a clear headed, factual girl with no ambition of notoriety in the room of egos around her. Alonso could sense it even after such a short duration of being with her. Within the same instant, Cruella DeVil noticed it too.

“Anita, darling,” Cruella said softly. The voice changed to another animal entirely when she turned her glassy eyes to the designer; cooing like a dove. “What is your opinion?”

The room fell silent around him. The designers gestured to each other the surprise which they clearly wished to conceal from the couture magnet. All Alonso needed to know  
about Anita Campbell-Green’s place in the rank of the room was told without a single word. The European designer let his hands fall slack to his sides, his mouth falling slightly ajar. According to the reactions around him, Alonso assumed that Anita’s opinion held no weight whatsoever, and to have been solicited by Cruella DeVil herself seemed an extraordinary happenstance.

Anita stood with her hands folded across her breasts. She took a deep breath and with a smile, took a step towards the platform.

“I….I can’t be certain, but last year when they published the editorials from the trials, you’ll recall that Lady Devonshire was given bad press for the taste level. Especially with the new conservative patrons which joined the committee in recent months I get the impression the taste in code will change.” Anita said, her voice only rising to a committed tone within the last few words.

All eyes turned back towards Cruella DeVil, who stood with her emerald eyes locked on Anita.

Alonso could see the slight curve of a smile hint at Cruella’s bright red lips, looking like two invisible lines pulling the ends of a painted ellipse across a blank canvas. Alonso, already hypnotized by her power of expression meant he could see subtleties which otherwise might have gone unnoticed. He may have been seeing things, he thought, but he felt certain Cruella DeVil’s eyes brightened, her face colored a rosy hue which matched her plush red, fur clad shoulders when she looked at Anita Campbell-Green. Without showing any immediate sign of approval, Cruella turned back towards the mirror and stepped closer to it, leaving the designers in limbo as to the state of her decision by her marked silence. She drew her cigarette away from her mouth with the dexterity of a violinist withdrawing his bow at the conclusion of a concerto. Even a movement so simple, Alonso watched with eager eyes, had fluidity and intent. Even in silence Cruella DeVil brimmed over with charisma. Yet beneath all that, he observed with certain reticence, she seemed feral. The unspoken smile she laid buried under the ploy of withholding her power of selection made her just as appealing as dangerous. Still caught in her own reflection, Cruella rested her elbow against her hip. Her eyes than left the glass and looked towards a desk and dress form arrangement in the corner of the room. To the left of the runway was a design station seemed hidden from the others. Alonso observed beside the desk a series of hooks against the wall with an assortment of printed gowns of various shapes and sizes. Keeping her eyes on the corner, Cruella stepped closer to the end of the platform.

“What is the third one to the top?” Cruella said firmly, pointing a slender red finger to the hem of a long zebra print gown almost completely hidden by the gowns before it. Anita unfolded her arms and walked towards the station.

“This is a sample I’ve just received back from the shop, Miss DeVil.” She said. Anita walked to the station and pushed aside the two smothering gowns to reach for the hanger.

“Your work, Anita?” Cruella said, her lips barely opening to allow the smoke to expel. Anita nodded.

Anita stepped forward with the long gown in hand. She twisted the hanger to show the front to Cruella as she remained standing on the platform. Without saying a word, Anita instead rearranged the long tails of what looked like an enormous asymmetrical bow across one shoulder of the gown which became a train several feet long. Compared to the slender, revealing gown Cruella DeVil had been laced into just minutes prior the gown Anita presented was matronly in Alonso’s eyes. The sleeves were long and pointed over the hands and the print of the zebra’s bold striped circled the body like a barber shop sign. Cruella DeVil remained silent, looking over the dress before decidedly turning so her back faced the top of the stairs.

“Take this off!” She commanded.

A team of designers at once ambushed the platform, each person holding out their hands to the miniscule assistant who had been the first to sneak up the stairs and began unlacing the red ties across her back. The gloves were first, her long slender limbs exposed to the light showing more white than pink in the tone of her skin. The fur sleeves came off next to Alonso’s surprised, thinking they had been affixed permanently to the gown. Alonso felt his own cheeks turn hot at the sight of her bare shoulders and open neck. Suddenly his view disappeared as two designers, clad in black suits circled Cruella DeVil holding two long sheets of red fabric. Alonso looked beneath them; the gown she had worn was piled around her ankles and in the next moment had been pulled away, revealing nothing but her bare ankles clad in red heels.

He could hardly believe his own eyes.

Anita entered between the two vertical sheets with the gown in hand. Only able to observe the shoulders, necks, and heads of the two women he instead listened to the sounds around him. The material of the skirt rustled as Anita placed it onto the floor for Cruella to step into. The two women faced each other as Anita set the sleeves onto Cruella’s arms. Following the motion, Cruella turned to allow Anita to close the gown. The sharp zing of a closing zipper captured Alonso’s attention and feeling his heartbeat race with anticipation he waited with staggered breaths for the grand reveal.

Simultaneously the two designers holding the dressing shades snapped their wrists back to pull away the fabric in one deft motion. Cruella stood at the center of the platform and Anita took several steps back, awaiting the repercussions of the change. Anita looked more nervous than ever now, Alonso observed from her trembling hands and uneasy stance. This gown, while covering every inch of Cruella to the top of her breasts accentuated her form with even more ease than the last. It should certainly have been more comfortable, Alonso could conclude from the ease in which the zipper closed across her back versus the forced confines of the laced gown from before. This time too, the bright red loop of the bow wrapped around one shoulder; the pop of the bright color only highlighting the unexpected green of her eyes, made her seem less reptilian than the last gown. Performing the same gestures as before, turning one shoulder at a time towards the reflection, Cruella kept the lit cigarette between her lips. The flickers of light from the burning tobacco grew closer and closer to the end of the holder. The European man came back into Alonso’s view holding his rejected gown draped across his two arms like a lifeless corpse.  
This fashion was fatal, Alonso could conclude. If it was a proper assumption of the industry to reject the popular, powerful trends of the time for the newest and latest on the act of a whim, Alonso accepted this virtue may be doubly true of Cruella DeVil.

Cruella took no remorse or second thought in admiring the new silhouette after so hasty a rejection. While similar in shape to the European’s dress, the tasteful neckline and the easy, flowing motion of the long bow ribbons hanging away from her back seemed more and more appropriate as the moments went on for what he could assume of the special event. The Chesterton Trials, Alonso recalled. Sounded like a horse race.

“Anita,” Cruella said decidedly, “Hold this one for the trials. Jean-Christian will simply have to wait his turn.”

A silent protest hung in the air by the silenced opinions. No one spoke. Jean-Christian, now identified as the short European man, threw his token gown over his shoulders and proceeded to walk back towards one of the many work stations. Alonso could see the mixed reactions and glances which were sent in Anita Campbell-Green’s direction. ‘But she has no experience’ One voice whispered. ‘A protégée compared to him.’ ‘No edge, no daring!’ He heard in whispers surrounding the runway. Cruella DeVil remained in her pose, running her bare hand along the bright ribbon which folded across her right breast. Her fingernails were finely manicured, and to his surprise considering the favorite contrast color, were painted black on one hand and white on the other in the style of her erratic hair.

It was only then, when the action of the room dulled to a disordered murmur rather than a single center of attention that Alonso began to feel it again.

What am I doing here?

“Who are you?” Alonso heard Cruella DeVil’s voice pronounce.

Alonso looked up and felt the full power of her stare when her eyes met his. Accompanying the fear which settled in his stomach, Alonso felt his heartbeat accelerate to a pounding in his chest. He felt like the heroic prince from the folk tales, staring the dragon full in the face only the fluttering of one’s heart akin to looking at the rescued princess he felt staring at the beast, in spite of himself.

Frozen with embarrassment, Alonso wrung his hands together behind his back.

“He is here for the valet opening, Miss DeVil, to fill the position.” Anita Campbell-Green said, rescuing Alonso from his self-inflicted imprisonment. He could do nothing save nod his head.

“Very well, tell him to wait, I’ll see him shortly.” Cruella DeVil said, stepping down the platform at first unaccompanied than the first man to notice raised his hand to assist her. She denied it. Alonso watched her pass back into the large center doorway and the two motion activated doors closed behind her. When he turned back towards Anita, the doors opened again and Cruella walked forward, leading with the pointed end of her cigarette, the long tails of the bow still trailing behind her like flags.

“Anita, come with me.” Cruella DeVil’s eyes flashed again as she spoke. She placed the cigarette back into her lips and kept her white, open palm towards Anita as she crossed into the office. Just as the doors closed, Alonso caught sight of Cruella placing her long fingers squarely on the small of Anita’s back as they disappeared into the office.

Alonso was alone.


	3. Inquiries

The hubbub around him did nothing to capture his attention anymore. Alonso couldn’t focus. He forgot all of the desirable qualities which he had arranged to speak of when prompted. Every carefully chosen word of merit he had prepared slipped from his memory. He began to wonder things. What type of car did Cruella DeVil drive? A Limousine, he thought with anticipation. Where did she live? And if this, her place of work, was more opulent than any office he had ever seen what than could be said of her residence? He had known several wealthy employers in his time, most executives and banking types who didn’t have much contact outside of the daily commute. Those clients, he recalled, didn’t allow for any involvement or chance for interaction. He couldn’t imagine the job for Cruella DeVil could be much different but he already knew it was. Just look at Anita Campbell-Green, he thought, having to run to pick up the ringing telephone. People here simply did whatever it was Miss DeVil asked. And he knew why. He was ensnared much as everyone else; feeling that somehow pleasing Cruella in even the smallest task must bring on the most thorough, unexplainable satisfaction. Like a lion tamer, he thought, the delight the trainer must feel when the wild creature rubs its head against his leg affectionately as though it were a domestic feline. That is what it must feel like.

When the doors opened, Anita Campbell Green (a welcome sight to him now) stepped out and offered her guidance again into the office.   
Alonso saw in front of him the epitome of every design he had seen previously in the scheme of the interior put to perfection in the office of Cruella DeVil. It was a long, narrow room, with floors and ceilings painted over in the same stripes as the previous rooms but accented in larger black stripes. There was a set of stairs leading to the rear of the space where a glass top desk and several sets of chairs were assembled. The chairs looked like tree branches and to his surprise, when he stepped to the top of the stairs there was an enclosure like a garden gazebo over his head in the same metal works. Before a wide open window revealing St Paul’s Cathedral in the distance was the center of Cruella’s enterprise. A pristinely kept glass top desk with neatly piled sets of papers, a cosmetic mirror, red and black pens and pencils and a small free standing sculpture of bones. Between the two ends of the sculpture was Cruella DeVil’s red cigarette holder laying across it like a plank across two work horses. The only place which revealed imperfection lay beneath the holder, where piles of ash and blackened spots blemished the glass breaking the illusion of invisibility. Alonso’s eyes roved further after noticing the absence of the couturier herself. There was a tower in the far right corner with four enclosed circles of glass which he realized were compact discs set in a player. Besides that and set up against the wall was a long chaise in black and white with printed pillows accented with a ruffled red throw. Anita gestured to one of the branch shaped chairs. He sat down, the elongated spines of the chair feeling cold against his back. 

He was terrified to touch anything.

As he heard Anita’s heeled shoes walk back towards the door, another sound and movement caught his peripheral vision. The striped wall to his left, which hitherto had seemed usual in construction, suddenly opened and set back inside the wall. Exposed within the hidden enclosure, Cruella DeVil emerged and stood in the doorframe with the accepted Chesterton gown cradled in her left arm like an oversized bouquet. 

“Anita, darling, have this brought down to the car.” Cruella said meeting Anita at the top of the stairs and passing it between them like an infant. Alonso felt a rush of nerves go over him. Anita had reached the door and suddenly he found himself alone in the office with Cruella DeVil. 

Cruella DeVil turned back towards the desk, allowing Alonso to see now she was clad in a red suit covered from waist to hem in long dangling sections of fringe made of beads which made a sound like crushed glass shards when she walked. Her neck and shoulders, so admired by his eyes when bared in the previous gowns, were now concealed by a slim fitting white blouse which was thin enough to deceive the sturdy lingerie worn beneath it. Cruella’s waist was inconceivably minimized by the elaborate corset. He felt uncomfortable looking at her; realizing the ridges and slashes on the blouse reminded him of looking at the skeleton of a ribcage. Topping her shoulders was a short red jacket Alonso had only ever seen on postcards of Spain depicting bullfighters. Alonso shuffled his weight in his seat as he watched her stride purposefully to her tall chair behind the desk. Still not saying a word, leaving Alonso alone in his fear, Cruella lifted the holder from its cradle and placed a fresh cigarette. Lifting what looked like the tusk of a warthog next to her mirror Cruella’s fingers pressed the silver cap revealing the objects function; lighting a flame. Closing her eyes with the first inhalation, Cruella set her back against the chair. 

Alonso held his breath. 

“So, what is your name?” Cruella said, keeping her cigarette aloft in one hand and taking up one of the official documents on her desk to peruse. Alonso felt more and more uncomfortable, seeing her action as a sign of the disinterest she may have been predisposed towards him.

“Alonso,” He managed to blurt out without stammering. This was a start. 

“How old are you?” Cruella continued in the same tone.

“Six and thirty, ma’am,” He replied, twisting his hands in his lap feeling more like a schoolboy than the age he declared.

“Are you married?” Cruella raised her eyes from the paper and rested deliberately on his lap as if to search his hands. 

Alonso felt his nerves well up in his throat. 

“Well?” Cruella quipped, holding her hand still. The smoke from her cigarette traced upwards towards the ceiling.

“Nn…nn..” Alonso froze. His stammer got the better of him again. “No.” Alonso said deliberately, opening his hands across his knees and grabbing hold of them. 

“Good.” Cruella said quickly, “The best never are.” She lifted the page of paper she had finished reading and tore it in two between her hands. The tearing noise did nothing to ease the tension. 

“I drive a restored 1935 Rolls Royce, have you experience in such a vehicle?” Cruella said authoritatively. Alonso felt his ears were deceived. Her wealth seemed insurmountable to him.

“My father was a mechanic, he t…t….taught me to use many types of tr…transmissions.” Alonso uttered with minimal but rising confidence.

“Well than, sounds promising.” Cruella said quickly, lifting another sheet filled with figures. “Now understand I am not one with much time to idle. The job would require complete commitment, with sufficient salary of course. I need more than just a driver, I need a second body, a planner, a caretaker, not just a butler but a valet in the complete meaning of the word,” Cruella said, setting aside the paper and rising from her chair. “And normally I would have preferred a single woman, but the last ruined any hope of trusting another again; a man couldn’t possibly be worse, you see. I run a corporation, Mr. Alfred, and I expect efficiency in everything I ask. Do you understand?” 

Alonso was aware of the direct, militaristic tones her voice produced when issuing her commands. And the alternate name she pronounced. It was all he could do to keep his hands from gesturing a salute. The thought alone, against his will, caused Alonso to chuckle. Horrified he could have sounded such a noise at that particular moment, Alonso filled the silence stammer free:

“I understand completely, Ms. DeVil.” Alonso continued “My…my…-

“Is there something wrong? Are you always so flustered?” Cruella interrupted. At last, Alonso acknowledge, he would have to confess his faults. 

“For…forgive me, Ms. DeVil. It’s a st…st…stammer. I’ve had it since I was a boy.” Alonso said, feeling the knot in his chest lessen considerably.

To his surprise, Cruella remained standing motionless save for the smoke billowing from her nostrils. Alonso had his first moment of fashion opinion since walking over the threshold. The coat, combined with her smoke inspired him. All she needed was a ring on her nose and her transformation would be complete. Alonso prevented the completion of the thought. Cruella DeVil’s eyes remained fixed on his face even when she began to walk from around the desk to his side. Alonso savored again in experiencing her presence. Her aura was more powerful than any high financier or businessman he had even been acquainted with in all his years circling the financial district. Cruella DeVil was, to his simple observation, the most spectacular woman he had ever seen. 

Alonso had never wanted power. He never could see himself conquering companies and acquiring fortunes to satisfy his ambition. Whenever he closed his eyes and searched his soul for his perfect vision he had always imagined a two story flat, maybe somewhere in St. John’s Wood, a hearth, a wife, a dog; the things he had always expected would bring a man fulfillment. Alonso blinked and the vision disappeared. What stood before him instead was something that gave him the first surge of unrelenting desire he had ever comprehended. He wanted her. Alonso wanted to know more of her. The chance to see life through her eyes, to partake in her every moment, was insatiable to him. 

There, hanging on a precipice from Cruella DeVil’s lips, Alonso had never felt so alive in his whole life.

“I don’t mind that you can’t talk,” Cruella paused. “It may be a credit to your discretion.” 

Alonso heaved a sigh even while he felt his first sting.

“You can start by making sure that gown makes it to the car. Send that downstairs, than go to the fourth office to the left and see Josephine she will provide you with a uniform.” She said, circling around with a flourish to return to her chair.

“Miss DeVil?” Alonso said questioning.

Cruella took her place behind her desk, crossing her legs. When she looked over at him, green lasers met his eyes. 

“You’re hired.”


	4. Ascension

The next six months were nothing short of a fantasy. With work, however, Alonso admitted. The suit she had given him on his first day hung away from his frame now, inches too big for him. The pace of her life left Alonso with little time for anything else, just as she had warned. There were mistakes made, of course, which were always acknowledged with a sharp remonstration, but never anything a beginner to being her accompanist would not have erred themselves. There were moments he acknowledged he barely had time to appreciate the luxuries that surrounded him. The DeVil Manor, Cruella’s house in the suburb, was palatial. Many of the larger rooms dated back to years he shrank from recalling. It was days before he realized that there was not a single window to be found in the entirety of Cruella's house save for two in her boudoir. Much in the same vein as The House of DeVil, Alonso was impressed by the elaborate lighting which was installed in her chambers. Above her bed, though concealed by layers of silk curtains, was an open skylight which from the outside of the house, resembled the roof of a glass house and when night fell, could be lit from within with the dial of a switch. If he was not in her room, the rest of the house, his room including, was darkened and lit with old fashioned lamps and even torches in some of the foyers. 

Her skin, Alonso assumed to himself, she was so pale it would make sense she withdrew from sunlight. 

After the first week he was taught basic culinary skills. Not a cook by any means but he still had to prepare tea or cocktails when commanded. His prior knowledge of the basics of domestic arrangements was invaluable to him here. The only tasks which surprised him was by the end of the fourth week, Alonso realized that Cruella had no ladies maid. The couture, elaborate garments she had painstakingly fashioned she handled herself in the early morning hours before heading down to London. 

Alonso should have known his discretion and trust would reach a new place entirely one morning when he heard his name pronounced after he set down her breakfast on the coffee table outside her boudoir. There was nothing unusual about it at first, Alonso recalled. She had often barked orders from her chambers when he passed them; too hesitant to dare enter them without her consent. He heard her voice issue his name again, summoning him. When he walked to the doorway and looked inside to her bed chamber Alonso’s breath caught in his throat. 

Cruella was seated at her vanity; a long cascading ostrich feather skirt engulfed her from the waist down like a spiraling black cloud. Her hair was already assembled in a myriad of veiling which hung like a fishtail down the back of her neck. But everything aside, her entire back was exposed and he saw only for a brief series of moments the reflection of her unadorned breasts in the mirror before she folded her gloved, bejeweled arms disapprovingly. 

“See what YOU can manage with that wretched zipper!” Cruella said angrily, rising from the chair and marching back into her closet, her arms opening again as she turned into the room. 

Alonso could barely put one foot before the other. Barely notice the red shirt which lay strewn on the floor at her feet like road kill. With trembling hands and barely able to keep his eyes on the garment he lifted it from the fur rug. The tooth of the zipper had caught in the seam allowance. Alonso recalled how half the words which came to his mind when he looked at Cruella’s wardrobe had been taught to him simply by osmosis. He was shocked at how little time it took for him to acquire a full vocabulary of the fashion world. Seam allowance, grommets, hems, trim, embellishments, smocking, and pleating Alonso thought. He thought about anything to distract him from what he had seen and couldn’t erase from his eyes. Alonso looked back towards the closet waiting for her to emerge. She had to at some point, he thought selfishly. He watched the stationary line of gowns, suits, skirts and trousers waiting for movement to break their immobility. Against every forced distraction Alonso could hear his thoughts spiraling out of control. The shock would not subside. The vision of her bare shoulders and back perfectly rounded and white like the Grecian statues in her very own vestibule shattered the brusque, masculine demeanor she had created in her handling of him reminding him (almost as if by surprise) that she was a woman. 

She chose an optimal moment, he recalled. Cruella DeVil reentered, her right arm folded across her chest concealing the majority of what he had seen. She seemed comfortable, not in the least nonplussed by his presence. Alonso’s nervous hands were futile. After several attempts, Cruella groaned with displeasure and turned back into her closet. Her hands dropped and began to unbutton the skirt at her waist; giving up on the chosen ensemble. It was probably better off; the silk was spotted with the sweat from his knuckles. 

He never was able to fix that zipper.


	5. Minutiae

6:15 AM. Alonso’s bell tolled.

6:45 Alonso opened the rear entrance to the kitchen; the one other staff, Roland the chef, arrived shortly thereafter. There were always endless amounts of exotic spices brought in glass jars. They all looked like pepper to Alonso’s inexperienced palate.

7:15. Raising a white gloved hand, Alonso would knock three times gently onto the door of Cruella DeVil’s boudoir. No answer meant return in a quarter of an hour. A short affirmative meant he could enter. This was a new routine too, Alonso had recently acquired. Previously she had not allowed his entrance without her mask as she put it. Alonso assumed she was referring to her make-up. Cruella enjoyed the new habit of having him bring her the robe of her choice before heading back down to the kitchen to fetch her tea. Modesty was nothing to Cruella DeVil now. Pointing her slender fingers from the head of her bed she would make her selection, and as though offering her a court robe for a coronation Alonso would hold out the shoulders and offer it to his queen. He had seen everything by that time but she still maintained her fascination. He had only just learned to keep his cheeks from reddening at the sight of her disrobed.

8:30AM. Alonso uncovered the Rolls from the garage. Walking around the periphery of the vehicle for any scratches, marks or detritus was one of his genuine pleasures. It was  
truly a spectacular car. The engine had been replaced, the suspension rebuilt within perfect specifications to the original construction. The interior was the smoothest leather he had ever felt. There were custom rims affixed to each wheel, all with Cruella DeVil’s initials in an elaborate cursive. Across the seat, as if to remind the pedestrians who would pass the car of the product she wholeheartedly endorsed, was a full cheetah pelt. As it was turning seasons, Cruella had on more than one occasion already, whilst sitting in the left passenger seat, pulled the pelt into her lap for warmth. Though he could, even whilst watching the road, see her colored hands caress the dead skin as tenderly as one would if the animal were still alive.

8:45AM. Alonso pulled the car to the front of the house. The moment when she made her way down the steps would decide whether he was escorting or handing the car over to her control. Her ensembles dictated this choice, Alonso realized. Many of her elaborate suits were far too complicated to stash between the seat and the oversized steering wheel. On these mornings Alonso would exit the car and assist her. Cruella was never one for asking, and she had Alonso taught well enough to read her body language. Once in the car, whether she decided to take the car herself or let Alonso do what he originally accepted to be his job, he would always manage to see the car cross the front gate and into the outside world by ten minutes to 9.

9:25AM. Alonso would cross the stone steps which he had at first he had been so intimated by. Now they were as comfortable to him as walking through a garden arbor. That is, the days when he personally escorted Cruella DeVil. When he did not he would arrive shortly thereafter, taking the service elevator up to the 66th floor. The mirror and zebra prints were too dizzying to him so early in the morning. It felt more appropriate too; Alonso admitted to himself in private, that he makes his entrance nonchalantly into the office. He already knew the ins and outs of the manor so it was mere weeks before he knew the secrets of the fashion house.  
Sometimes however, for reasons Alonso was yet to discover, when he knocked on Cruella’s door at 7:15 she would accept her breakfast tray and then command him to go to the office early. Though only in her room a few moments, Alonso noticed it was always untidier than usual on those mornings. Those days were always more difficult. Knowing they would again reconvene in the office, Alonso was forced to resort to his old means of transportation; the double decker bus. He had grown used to the awkwardness of his appearance compared to the fellow travelers. Mornings such as those were the only times he realized how accustomed he had grown to being at the wheel or within the comfort of Cruella’s Rolls Royce. Before long, on those mornings he arrived early, Alonso had been designated as the second assistant to which ever designer most needed his aid. More than once he had been asked to don one of the elaborate coats to assist with pinning a hem. And in a turn of irony, Alonso most often found himself glued to the glass top desk in the foyer answering incoming calls. That was the worst.

He didn’t discover until some months later why it was that those days differed in Cruella DeVil’s routine.

11:45AM. The morning, filled with endless tasks, cups of tea, delivery of renderings, fabric swatches and countless other details would pass quickly and by the time 11:30 came ticking around Alonso knew half his days’ work had ended. Cruella DeVil stopped whatever it was she was doing, whether it was a frivolous chat with a visiting model or a meeting with the team of designers, everything ceased when the clock chimed 12PM. Than depending on what her taste was, Alonso was given the name of a restaurant. Whether she had made previous reservations or not Alonso had never ever had to tell Cruella DeVil that a table wasn’t available. Be it The Criterion, The Ivy the Ritz, or a newly reopened dining room which only the Royal Family seemed to have access to there were no hindrances as soon as Alonso uttered her name into the receiver. On two occasions he had seen the Queen Mother sitting in a corner table. The circle of people in which Cruella DeVil had managed to surround herself was nothing less than humbling to him. Whenever Cruella dined it was also ample opportunity to entice prospective clients. Even though Cruella’s own wardrobe was stunning compared to the ready to wear the rest of the world was made up of, she often spent the five to ten minutes while he fetched the car to go through the designers stations, choosing jewelry or accessories straight from the runway shows before their premieres. Alonso knew this because by the time he met her at the lobby elevator the doors would reveal a different Cruella DeVil than the one he brought to the office that morning. Alonso came to love this about her. Her unpredictability, even when her temper was flared, kept him guessing. Like a chameleon, Alonso could not keep track of the number of exteriors she created for herself.

1:30PM: The second half of the day was known to Alonso as his reprieve. Until the end of the day arrived Alonso was stationed in Cruella DeVil’s office; ready for anything. He preferred the chair by the door. Alonso would take this time to retreat to his own thoughts.

In spite of spending what he felt was every breath with Cruella he caught himself thinking of her endlessly.

“Alonso, did you bring the revision of the new collection to the publishers?” Cruella uttered from her desk, looking up from her scattered arrangement of papers. Alonso reached the top of the steps before issuing a reply:

“Yes, Miss DeVil.”

A change came over Cruella’s face. At first he didn’t know how to respond. She was smiling. Cruella stood up from her seat, leaving her cigarette on the desk. She raised her hands out to him. Alonso felt his eyes go over hazy. Cruella was circling her arms around his shoulders, kissing him, her long nails gripping at his back.

“ALONSO!”

Alonso opened his eyes, startled awake from his daydream.

“Are you deaf you imbecile! Did you send the alterations?” Cruella shouted.

Cruella DeVil was not the easiest person to carry a torch for.

6:00PM: Alonso fell quickly into the habit of dining early. His energies were expended much more quickly than he had known before and more importantly, helping with service at the DeVil manor was a two person job every evening. The kitchen was sizeable enough for an entire fleet of chefs, sous chefs and waiters but only the single chef alone ran the entire production. Cruella DeVil preferred a small, competent staff in her own home compared to the multitudes of bodies in her fashion house. It was no time at all before the holidays and dinner parties threatened on the horizon. Alonso was never partial to parties. He was nervous around people as it was but when inhibitions were forgotten, Alonso always felt compromised. Alonso preferred the evenings Cruella DeVil spent at home dining in solitude. Her wine cellar seemed infinite. She only collected reds. Occasionally still lingering over a report or editorial Cruella would be seated at the head of the table with chair beside her at an angle to rest her feet on. Another task was returning her shoes to her boudoir, more often Cruella would leave them unbuckled or abandoned under the dinner table. Still never letting her red cigarette holder leave her side Cruella would only stop feeding her habit when it came to dine.

As he observed before Cruella had acquired a multitude of spices which she often doctored onto her meals with her own hands. The aroma of the tray when he carried it out to her always stuck in his nostrils. Curious enough after one meal, Alonso returned the tray to the kitchen. He licked the tip of his finger and picked up a cluster of ground leaves from the tray which had fallen from the closure of the bottle. He nearly gagged. Cruella DeVil must have had an appetite for fire. Even more disturbing at first was her admiration for red meat. Alonso had never seen such cuts from an animal. More and more Alonso retained the truths of her behavior to himself. Not only for his own paid discretion but because like a field researcher, watching Cruella DeVil often revealed more to him than asking. He never dared ask anything, even when invited to by the silence which would often hover in the air of the dining room.

In spite of loving her and wanting to know every detail of her past and present, Alonso knew his place.

8:00PM. In the house, there were no other forms of entertainment to be found other than books. The DeVil manor had two oversized libraries in the southern wing of the house which Alonso had only been forced to enter on two occasions. Sometimes, after Cruella DeVil had retired, she would sit on her bed amongst her pelts of the day with sketches and renderings laid across her lap. These were the common denominators of the two occasions. Cruella had summoned him asking him to bring back a certain book from her father’s library. That was the first time any mention of her family had passed her lips. When instructed, Alonso followed the corridor which led to the southern wing of the mansion. He had only ventured down this hallway once before. Now past the point of recognition he continued on, repeating the title and author of the book she had requested. He reached the door at the end of the hall. When he opened it, another piece of the DeVil puzzle had been opened before him.

The room was lined in shelves, with two sets of spiral staircases, one at each corner, leading to a second level. Ladders were everywhere and on the direct opposite wall was a full, wall sized map with penciled in markings. The map was faded and torn in places, as though it had gone through battle. Alonso stepped closer to it, seeing up close the marking and circles around specific cities and towns across England, France, the Middle East and Africa. In front of the map was a large desk which had no surface to be seen from the pile of books stacked one over the other in various sizes. The covers were smothered in dust. Alonso wanted to remove his gloves and use his fingers to brush their bindings to reveal their titles but thought better of it. He turned his attention back towards the shelves surrounding him. Alonso began to search the titles in the corner Cruella had instructed him to peruse first. The bindings bore the titles of great battles, expeditions and discoveries of ancient cities. As his eyes continued to explore, the subject matters changed. Names of distant countries and cities were now listed alphabetically. There it was. Alonso pulled out a thin book bound in black leather. The cover showed a range of mountains with one peak far surpassing the other. The title read Nepal: From Peak to Province. Following an impulse he himself couldn’t account for, he opened the book to reveal the inside page. To his surprise, in a large, bold cursive writing was an inscription on the inside leaf:

Sitagroi, Greece- M--- 1968

To Lenora,  
I’ll take you for your birthday next year. Expedition not expected to return until November. Until then, take care.

Gen. Maurice DeVille

Who was Lenora? Alonso pondered.

The world encircling Cruella DeVil grew more enigmatical as the days passed.


	6. The Vendor

“Today is an important meeting Alonso, telephone the office tell them I won’t be in until well past two.” Cruella said from the head of her bed. 

Alonso had just returned her empty tea cup to the tray, the edge of the cup already stained with faded lipstick. She sat back against the frame, which like the chairs in her office, reminded him of multitudes of assembled tree branches. That was one thing which Alonso could enjoy without prejudice; Cruella always surrounded herself with objects of beauty which distracted from her less becoming qualities. She was beautiful to look at seated as she was; garbed in a peacock feathered robe which hung effortlessly over her bare shoulders. A thick blue silk belt which reminded Alonso of kimono obis (again a garment he had only been familiarized with when Cruella had begun contemplating a collection of fur kimonos for the winter collection) cinched her waist to perfection and held the loose robe in place. The blue green tone of the gown made her checkerboard colored hair even more striking. Watching in silence from the entrance to her bedchamber Alonso let the satisfaction of gazing at her form distract him. He had come to love the little things. Her eyes, the way her pinky always seemed elevated to the rest of her fingers when curled around her cigarette, the freckles between her breasts. When his eyes fell on the freckles he caught himself and quickly dashed his gaze to the end table. The book Alonso had brought to her days before remained on the stand next to her bed. Looking up from her newspaper, Cruella DeVil caught his ogling eyes and immediately issued an icy stare which could only be rivaled by a blast of icy frost from an Antarctic wind.

“Go, I’ll meet you at the car!” 

This was a different building, Alonso realized as he tucked the rear of the car beside the curb. He saw the door with the number Cruella DeVil had mentioned. The entrance was unprepossessing, crude stone steps with a large and heavy looking wooden door with nothing to recommend it visually save for an elongated ‘7’ next to the door handle. Alonso exited the car, pushing the key into his rear pocket between his coat tails. He opened the door to allow Cruella’s exit. A red hat resembling an upside-down comma sat atop Cruella DeVil’s head holding down a band of zebra printed veiling which laid flush to her eyes like a mask. Cruella reached out her hand. Alonso, with surprise at the action, eagerly lent her his arm as she stood up from the seat. Stepping onto the sidewalk, Cruella DeVil smoothed the front of her ivory and red striped skirt. Alonso couldn’t stop his eyes from spying the glimpse of her legs through the long slit closure of the skirt which hooked across her hips. Alonso saw up close the clustered, glittering beads which concealed the closure over her jacket over what looked like nothing more than a translucent striped bra of the same material which he spied over her eyes. As she walked towards the step Alonso was surprised to recognize that the handle of the purse hanging from her shoulder was fabricated from the metal toothed jaw of a bear trap. 

The doorbell sounded a harsh buzz. Without hearing anyone approach from within, the door unlocked. When Cruella placed her hand on the handle and pushed the door in, Alonso was sure someone would be waiting at the other end. There was no one; only a darkened hallway.

Following her white silhouette and flickering cigarette into the darkness Alonso felt his unease begin to overwhelm him. However the clicking of her heels told Alonso not to worry, her stride was more than confident. Without any warning he saw Cruella DeVil disappear to the right, showing another short hallway where a single light shone. It was affixed to the ceiling from a crude wire. The surrounding rooms were vacant of any signs of habitation. No furniture or light fixtures, as though the building were the shell of what once could have been an office. What place is this? Alonso thought, walking on in Cruella’s shadow.  
Another light signified the end of the hallway. Cruella DeVil raised her fist to knock at the next door; the shadows of the single light source turning her elegant features grotesque if only for a moment.

The door opened.

“Well if it isn’t little Lenora DeVille,”

The man standing at the door was clad in a black and grey suit. Alonso could see traces of lines on his face like faded scars across his defined chin. The eyes were dark brown and the jaw even more pronounced by stubble which to him looked unkempt. From his immoveable and sturdy presence he appeared to possess several years over Cruella but not any difference substantial to justify his adjective before her name.

Her name, Alonso realized. 

In an instant he saw the inscription on the inside of the book.

“You never did like my nom du jour, darling.” Cruella, Lenora, Alonso couldn’t decide what to refer to her as in his thoughts. “It suits me better.” She continued. The man smiled, opening his large hands to grasp her shoulders. He leaned in and in the style of Europeans Alonso had seen greet each other in Cruella’s meetings, kissed both of her cheeks. Alonso couldn’t contain his shock. No other man he had seen Cruella encounter shared this kind of friendly exchange. 

“Now than,” Cruella DeVil uttered as she made her way into the room. Alonso followed close behind, locking eyes with the stranger only briefly and nodding. The lights were more evenly distributed now, to his relief. Yet the relief was short lived when he spotted the long tables against the walls. The tables were covered with fur. Each one laid out in a deliberate manner, full length arms and legs of pelts stacked one on top of the other like pancakes. Other tables the samples were folded in squares, pre-cut and tagged with their measurements. In smaller cases and crates were inventories of smaller body parts, teeth, claws, and large bleached bones already wrapped and weighed. Under these tables, Alonso could see were large metal studded crates, some open some sealed, with huge silver locks at even intervals like eyes peering out from under rocks. In the opposite corner were suitcases and wooden crates. The crates looked like something off of a cargo ship; oversized boxes comprised of planks with foreign stamps and titles printed across them in red and black ink. His face deceived his resolution to remain composed when he saw the farthest wall. Artillery, chains, hooks, guns, crossbows, and some even nameless objects of horror covered the wall in the same manner as one would cover with picture frames. Cruella DeVil stood in the center of the room, the red beading embellishing the front of her jacket now looking to Alonso’s eyes like a bleeding gash between her breasts in the context of the room around her. 

The man remained close to the door, one hand slung casually in his pocket as he kept his dark eyes solely on Cruella. He was the same height as Alonso, he concluded, but his broad shoulders and girth of his arms within the sleeves of his suit jacket showed he was a man of considerable strength. The demeanor told Alonso this was a travelled, rugged man with a questionable past nearly branded in his expression. Alonso stood within Cruella’s periphery. 

“Don’t waste my time with common creatures; show me what you yourself consider worthwhile.” Cruella DeVil uttered, opening her purse to change the cigarette from her holder.

“I spent over seven months in Nepal and India, Lenora.” The man said assertively, Alonso’s ears still ringing with the unfamiliar title he referred to her as. Cruella turned sharply towards him, the burst of smoke from the fresh cigarette casting a fog over her face.

“Gabe,” Cruella whispered slowly. “What do you have for me?” 

The silence between them made Alonso shuffle in his stance. Her power of intimidation, even with the lower, more feminine tones of her voice caused vibrations across his skin. Pausing, the tall man referred to as Gabe walked past Cruella to one of the farther tables. Hidden in the unlit underbelly of the long table was another crate, this time made from weathered black leather with belted closures. It was smaller than the others, making it easier to conceal. Gabe placed the bag onto the table. Alonso could see similar scars and scratches on the man’s hands. He looked as though he had personally battled each animal like a gladiator and in his victories transformed them into the rugs and swatches around him. Alonso acknowledged to himself that the man was a hunter; and not for the average, if legal, sport. 

Alonso remained aloof as Cruella DeVil walked beside the man, their backs facing him as the trunk opened with a squeal from its rusted hinges. From that point, Alonso remembered, he could see little of their faces in the partial light.

Cruella’s gasp of surprise filled the room. Alonso tried to peer between their shoulders to the trunk. 

“You didn’t?” Cruella whispered.

“I most certainly did. Camped out for over ten days.” The man said, lifting the pelt in one arm and hoisting it out of the trunk. Still only able to see the edges of it, Cruella’s sighs of exaltation distracted him from feeling anything but unease. It was a large, spotted white skin which swelled out of the trunk like an enclosed cloud. From the little of the whole he could see, Alonso recognized it to be that of a snow leopard. 

“Name your price. I’ll pay it; I’ve waited years for one of these to come into your collection.” Cruella whispered, her left hand stroking the pelt back and forth between their silhouettes. 

“I’m afraid money doesn’t interest me for this lot.” The man said with surprising confidence. Cruella’s face came back into view from her profile; her stare, even in the dim light, lethal with rage. Alonso unconsciously moved further from the pair, his back inching closer to the opposite wall; waiting for the grenade to explode.   
To his surprise no words passed between them. Alonso saw the man’s right arm reach up towards Cruella’s face. A single finger, his index, reached a spot just beneath her chin and traced her jaw. With no hesitation whatsoever he began to make his advance, kissing her neck just below her ear. Cruella DeVil still wordless stared into his eyes as he faced her. Something had to break, Alonso thought. This was inexcusable. 

“You can’t be serious.” Cruella whispered, a laugh breaking the last syllable. Alonso waited for her reaction. The tension destroyed him. There was no chance, Alonso thought to himself. The satisfaction of seeing her trample the presumptuous cad to his knees was too exciting to ignore. 

Cruella DeVil took the man’s hand within her grip. Keeping her eyes locked onto his she issued her reply:

“Don’t you know, you’re not my taste anymore, darling? And besides, seems far too simple a price to pay.” She replied, her eyebrow curling in synch with her smile.

“Don’t you want the story?” He continued, keeping his proximity to her face within a margin of being indecent.

"He was the lone hunter, the proudest and most elusive of the lot; he had a cave on the far northern edge of the mountain. Took two buggies through miles and miles of woods to reach it. Being alone like that, in pursuit, does something to a man. You learned things; you find your place, your rank, where you want to be in this life. Staring at the cat like that, knowing any minute he can play God and choose to take you, well, there’s nothing like it. And when you know too, the power in your hands, what you are capable of, the loneliness doesn’t mean anything anymore. He stood outside it like a king. I had my largest sniper rifle, took days before he crawled out again and when he did….”

The man's voice made Alonso shiver in fear. What it did to Cruella DeVil was something else entirely.

"Caught him just in the center of his neck. Had to wait over two hours before he finally bled out-You never did get to see that in Africa did you, Lenora? Well, it’s one of those things you never forget, see. It made me miss you. I knew only you would take as much satisfaction from it as I did."

Gabe's two fingers returned to the place beneath her chin, slowly tracing a straight line down the length of her body. 

“It made me remember things. That convoy at sunset-

“Yes-

“You, headstrong but awkward,” He said, leaning closer and pressing her waist against his. Alonso began to wish he had stayed in the car. Their entire history, despite their vague   
words, was beginning to unfold before him like a pantomime in shadow.

Alonso couldn’t see his hand anymore. When he did, Alonso felt an unutterable rage consume him. 

Alonso could see Cruella’s breath become visibly hastened. Cigarette still between her fingers she clutched her hands around the top of his shoulders as though her balance was failing her. Cruella’s eyes fluttered despite her resolve to hold her stare, which often kept her male subjects in check. The cigarette in her hand burned on and on with no cessation. The ashes fell on her hem. She was shuddering. Before Alonso knew what he was seeing, she had thrown the red holder onto the floor. Cruella’s eyes flashed. Alonso learned in that instant that there were indeed women who were capable, like praying mantis, of gorging the heads of their mates post coitus. 

Alonso turned away. This wasn’t happening. The sounds of their exchange made him queasy. 

Hoping to look back and find it all a fancy he turned back towards them. 

Cruella DeVil’s delight in the situation confounded him. Alonso felt his hands clench into fists at the sight of Gabe’s face buried in her neck, he was sinking fast to his knees and once on the floor struggled with the hooks of her jacket, the scarred hands carelessly ripping beads from the couture. Alonso couldn’t hold back the sound of shock which sounded when the jacket was opened, revealing her striped corset, even more disbelief when he discovered the three pried hooks of her skirt which opened to reveal her thighs; evidence of where his hand had wandered. At the noticeable sound he had uttered, two sets of hazy, angered eyes turned towards him.

“Your man,” Gabe whispered hurriedly as his hands grasped her legs under the slit of her skirt. Cruella’s face was crimson, but not from embarrassment. 

“Go to the car.”

He needed to say something. The sensation of hatred overwhelmed him. There must be something, some way to stop this. Reaching into his memory he used the first excuse he   
could.

“You’re mmm…meeting with the director is in less than an hour surely you don’t want-

“Get to the car!” She screamed. 

Alonso slammed the door behind him.


	7. Red

Alonso had been privy to the indiscretions and private matters of his clients before. He should not have been as shocked as he had been. 

He had made a perfect fool of himself.

The car engine ran on and on, growling in accompaniment to the inaudible grinding of his teeth. 

Alonso should not have been surprised. The woman worshipped fur after all, he thought to himself, what could possibly stand in the way of what Cruella DeVil wants? Feelings aside she was a ruthless, tactical and manipulative businesswoman who knew when her unique hand of cards would be of the most value to deal. Not unlike any other man or woman in her position of power.

The skies started to turn grey and threatened precipitation. Alonso rolled the window up. 

What a per…perfect ass you are, he said to himself. What makes you think she would care two ccc…cents about what you think? You’re a paid hand. Nothing more.

He sensed Cruella DeVil had no concept of what devotion meant, truly and sincerely. No other reason would have caused Alonso to speak as he did. No other reasons save for his incontrovertible jealousy. 

What’s the matter with you? 

Just as his thoughts teetered on the precipice of despair, the wooden door with the elongated ‘7’ opened. Cruella DeVil emerged from the darkness just as the rain began to fall onto the sidewalk. Alonso looked on with ardent aversion. 

The slaughtered snow leopard was wrapped across the front of her body like a pageant banner. 

For the first time in the now eight months Alonso had been under Cruella DeVil’s employment, he hated her.

She didn’t do anything wrong, Alonso chastised himself, driving down the alleys of London a little faster than usual; Cruella DeVil seated beside him with the pelt across her lap and her eyes concealed by her wide red sun shades; the veil over her eyes now non-existent. Alonso was not an innocent, contrary to his shy demeanor. He knew such dealings existed. 

Cruella DeVil removed her glasses and opened her armored purse. Pulling down the folded mirror from the roof of the car she carefully began to reapply her makeup. They reached an intersection and Alonso was forced to stop.

Alonso could see her mask was not left without disarray from her barter. The powder on her face was carefully reapplied and the line of her lips redrawn with dexterity just before the signal turned to proceed. Before driving ahead Alonso noticed the clearest questionable trait, several lines of beads hanging by their threads at the top portion of her jacket. The prospective explanations she would have to come up with made Alonso laugh to himself. At the next stop, Cruella DeVil removed the prized pelt from her lap and pushed it to the rear seat. The last two oversized hooks of her skirt were still unpaired. Alonso hated the curiosity he still harbored to let his eyes wander in her direction. 

The car in front of them stopped short, Alonso nearly seconds shy from impact slammed onto the brakes.

“Alonso!” Cruella shouted, bracing her position by an outstretched hand on the dashboard of the car. She searched his face. Alonso couldn’t speak; barely able to find the words to offer and apology; the shame of his unmentioned feelings surfacing in his expression. Cruella DeVil scowled openly and set her back against the chair, fumbling her hands through her purse again to produce her cigarettes.

“Don’t be such a fool,” Cruella said quietly. “I thought I would be avoiding such useless sentimentality if I hired a man.” 

Alonso felt his hands clench the steering wheel to the point where his knuckles cracked.

To his relief they reached the drop off outside the House of DeVil. Cruella made no formal exit from the car but instead pulled the leopard pelt into her lap and thrust it into Alonso’s.

“Put that in the trunk and mind you don’t let the coat show.”

Alonso twisted the pelt in a way which only the raw interior of the skin showed. Otherwise the fur was white and could easily be taken for another animal. Leaving the driver’s seat and opening the trunk he pushed the pelt into the farthest corner. After letting the trunk slam inelegantly, he opened the door to allow Cruella’s exit. Her stride was faster than usual as she made her way to the stairs, her long red and white striped skirt trailing behind. He handed the key to the office valet. Alonso spotted a mason worker sitting on the steps, a large cement stained bucket with a lid stood beside his leg. No one had ever sat casually on the stairs before. Seeing that Cruella DeVil was already well on her way to the entrance he hastened his steps to reach her. The mason worker rose from the step. 

Entering the lobby Alonso crossed in front of her to reach the elevator. Cruella’s eyes stared forward, purposefully ignoring Alonso’s face. He pressed the red button and saw the numbers descend. In his periphery the mason worker entered the lobby. He set down his cement bucket on the floor of the lobby and removed the lid. Alonso had never seen red cement.

The elevator doors opened.

“MURDERER!” The man cried out, suddenly running towards Cruella DeVil.

He followed his instinct.

Alonso without pause shoved Cruella DeVil forcibly into the elevator just as gallons of imitation blood erupted into the air. The torrent of ooze hit Alonso squarely on his chest as though he had been sprayed by a fire hose. In the same moment, Cruella stumbled into the far wall of the elevator falling to her knees, the door operator rushing to her aid. The security guard thrust his club against the man’s back, Alonso attempted to catch the perpetrator but slipped in the puddle of orange-red fluid. He felt his head go light after it struck the marble tiles with force. Sounds were all around him, continued screams of obscenities from the escaping protester, the general shouts of the witnesses around them, and a sound he never anticipated. Cruella DeVil was laid out on the floor, her back against the wall of the elevator, the shock written across her face as with a brand and spatters of the blood staining her left cheek. She was breathing heavily and in spite of her typically icy resolution, her hands trembled visibly.

Cruella DeVil caught Alonso’s eyes as they both lay frozen on the floor, a silent gaze of reconciliation breaking her façade. Alonso’s face was dripping, his entire torso drenched. 

Cruella DeVil’s mouth was clenched shut. He saw the rage begin to build in the fiery color of her cheeks.

Than with disbelief he saw what he never thought was possible. Cruella DeVil had betrayed herself. Tears were starting to glide down her face. With her make up, they coursed down her face like two lines of running ink.

Just as a sudden, visceral sob of fury cracked from her lips, the elevator doors closed.

Alonso laid his head in his hands, giving up the determination to remain conscious.


	8. Chivalry

“How could you let this happen to me?” Cruella DeVil shouted into her receiver.

Alonso opened his eyes. He thought he could hear Cruella but her voice was echoed, as though he were in a cave. He felt the clothes around him were tighter in some places and loose in other, unfamiliar, proving they were no longer his own. Alonso’s head was cold. A bag of ice had been resting on his forehead. When he sat up from where he was he realized he was on the chaise in Cruella DeVil’s office. Her room was filled with people. At his feet was a physicians’ bag. He was completely in the dark as to how he wound up back upstairs on the 66th floor. His skin was still sticky. Standing across from the desk awaiting her instructions were two police officers, one standing at attention the other with a notepad in his hands waiting for testimony. Cruella DeVil ignored them all. 

“This time it was blood, next time there could be a gun for all you know! There is no excuse for this level of incompetence! I don’t want a single person coming through the doors of my offices without a security check. Don’t tell me I don’t have the authority! Find a solution, stop feeding me excuses and prove to me your security team is made up of REAL men!” Cruella snapped. She slammed the receiver back onto the holder. 

Alonso’s head was still ringing. The ice, though a relief to the persistent throbbing, began to condense and melt down the side of his face making him shiver. 

“Why do stand there, what do you want?” Cruella DeVil addressed the two officers. 

“We caught him three blocks away hiding out under the bridge. Do you want him held in custody?”

“Of course!” She retorted. 

“We would have to press charges on him-

“This is ridiculous!” Cruella protested, waving her cigarette in her gesture.

“Did he strike your valet?”

“No-

“You, Miss DeVil?” He continued, pressing on.

“No, my valet got me to the elevator. He protected me.”

Alonso’s eyes looked up to the conversation. He doubted what he was hearing was real or a figment of his imagination, especially with his head still reeling from a minor concussion. She couldn’t possibly be standing up for him. He was startled when the physician suddenly entered his immediate sight to retrieve his bag.

“Well, Miss DeVil, we can collect the testimonies and submit it to the constable before the end of the day today. We’ll start with the guards downstairs. I understand you’re a busy woman, Miss. DeVil, we won’t keep you any longer.” The officer gestured a sharp nod to signal his departure. Putting his notebook back into his rear pocket the second officer followed. 

When the doors closed after them the office was left in silence.

Alonso couldn’t keep his grip on the bag of ice in his right hand. Slowly he attempted to stand.

“What are you doing?” Cruella DeVil said, looking in his direction. She leaned against the edge of her glass top desk with her arms folded.

“The ice, it’s mm…melting…” Alonso said. Upon standing he saw the stripes on the wall recede back and forth in front of his eyes. 

“Sit down, you shouldn’t move.” Cruella said firmly, setting her cigarette down on the table and approaching him. Alonso could hardly appreciate the fact that for the first time, when she pushed him back down onto the chaise, Cruella DeVil had touched him. She took the sopping wet bag from his hands with her gloves and crossed her desk to the bar. He had to be dreaming. Nothing could convince him that of all the multitudes of women which made up the world, Cruella DeVil was playing nurse to his ailment. She prepared the ice. When she reached the side of the room where Alonso sat, Cruella stood still, holding out the bag to him. When he reached for it, he saw for himself the remnants of dye still staining his hands. Cruella DeVil saw the speckled marks too. Waiting until he looked up to her face, Cruella said nearly under her breath:

“Thank you. They’ve never gotten that close before. It will never happen again.” 

Alonso couldn’t hide the smile which came to his face. Immediately responding to it, Cruella DeVil rolled her eyes and walked back to her desk.

“Now get Frederick to bring you back to the house. In such a pathetic state you’re useless here for the time being.”

Alonso felt truly acknowledged at last.


	9. Centerfold

Alonso had taken special care that the tea service was always meticulous. The pastries which were served also were checked for any excess sugar which could fall to Cruella DeVil’s lap imitating the snow which was starting to threaten the onslaught of the next season. She hated crumbs. Alonso couldn’t think of the anger which could come if any of her priceless couture were to be as demeaned by something as trivial as food. Then again, to his more practical sensibilities, he didn’t understand why she chose to remain in elegance at every moment. In other words, loungewear in the ordinary sense of the word was non-existent to Cruella DeVil’s standards. 

Alonso wheeled the breakfast cart into the foyer leading to her wing of the mansion. The faint sound of the squeaking wheels on the tiles doubled their resonance when he reached outside her door. Just as he raised his hand to the door a sound caught his attention.

He stood still.

There was a murmur within Cruella DeVil’s room. 

Yes!

Alonso against his will set his ear closer to the surface of the door. It was Cruella’s voice.

A series of moans reverberated against the walls.

Immediately Alonso set his hands around the handle of the door, moments away from forcing it open with a clench of his fingers. 

Yes, yes! 

The words broke pattern and became a sudden, drawn out scream not unlike the growl of a ravenous cat. The command was issued in his mind without pause. Shrinking against the cart Alonso hastily pushed it back down the hallway; setting the spoons clattering over the saucers and the tittering tea-cups pitched over to their sides.

Alonso couldn’t think. All he knew was no other reason he could fathom could keep him stationed where he was. 

When he reached the safety and silence of the kitchen, Alonso erupted with laughter.

He waited until the clock chimed a full hour past before he made his way slowly back towards the chambers.

As per his normal routine, Alonso knocked twice on the outer door. 

“Come in,” Cruella DeVil replied from within.

Alonso opened the double doors and pushed the breakfast cart into her room. Cruella was seated at her vanity. She held her cigarette between her teeth exhaling through her nostrils as she kept her focus deeply invested in applying a new, bright red shade of polish on her fingernails. This always occurred to Alonso as a foolish habit, since Cruella DeVil perpetually wore gloves. Alonso only saw the bare skin of Cruella’s hands when she prepared for repose. The gloves, each in themselves, were already affixed with artificial nails which Cruella had informed Alonso was an ode to one of her favorite designers. It was a long Italian name Alonso had long since forgotten.

When Alonso prepared Cruella’s tea his eyes searched the room nonchalantly. There was a displaced coat, not a fur coat he recognized as being part of Cruella DeVil’s extensive collection, which was laid slung across the arm of her chaise. But it could be that he had not yet seen every piece. He begged to differ. Alonso began to feel he was losing his mind, or falling unwittingly into witnessing rituals he never wanted to be made privy to. 

Then, rising up like a snake from the urn of a charmer, a slender white arm reached up from behind the cover of Cruella DeVil’s entangled foot board. The voice of the hidden   
figure sounded from the now shuffling sheets of silk and fur. 

“Can he brink me some tea as well?”

Ascending from the bed sitting upright Alonso was confronted with the exposed back of what seemed like the perfect human incarnation of Aphrodite herself. Her long brown hair fell over her right shoulder as she turned her body to reveal her face to the room.

The woman was ravishingly beautiful.

The woman pulled the long white fur blanket across her chest, showing Alonso some sense of modesty. She looked like something out of a vintage advertisement. She was small in build but her voluptuous curves were all but glorified in the manner of her posture as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The woman had dark black eyes and a clean, natural face without a single blemish. Her presence all but matched Cruella DeVil’s in command. 

Alonso did not know where to look. 

The woman stood up beside the bed and set her eyes on Alonso.

“Cood I trouble you?” She said, her accent sneaking into her English. Her dialect could only be deciphered to Alonso as Russian. 

He was dumbstruck. Alonso’s eyes were widening as he tried to deduce the situation before him.

“Well Alonso, you heard what she said!” Cruella DeVil turned back from her own reflection. 

A smile spread across the woman’s face, deceiving her act to conceal her delight in seeing Alonso’s obvious discomfort.

From where he stood, when Cruella DeVil looked back into the mirror, the eyes of the smiling woman met hers. The electricity between them was palpable. Alonso felt even more a fool. He wanted to throw up his hands in complete surrender. How could he have been such an idiot? 

Why did he still feel a pit of jealously form in the very marrow of his bones?

Alonso began to feel the inevitable despair which can come from loving someone unconditionally. He asked himself why a million times but still no explanation could be summoned to his reason. It was no matter to him whether it was a man or a woman, anyone who had the luxury of enjoying Cruella DeVil exclusively was equal territory to his shadowed gaze of envy. None of these things ever seemed to break his developing mask. Alonso never let his feelings be expressed, especially not through words. It was against his nature to speak. The catharsis he had found in finally releasing the humiliation of his situation privately to himself within the four walls of the kitchen just an hour before was enough for him. Enough at least to hold him over should his beloved chameleon shock him again, which he was beginning to hope may not be possible. 

Then again, he replied to his own question, preparing the tea, this is Cruella DeVil. Of all the women in the world he had to fall in love with, he chose the most impossible. He thought to himself, letting the cubes of sugar plop inelegantly into the cups. 

Though momentarily lost in his thoughts, Alonso noticed that the brown haired woman had walked to the right side of Cruella’s elongated closets, still clad in nothing but bed sheets, and began to browse as though it as if it were a sample rack. She pulled out a long, jeweled robe with claws for buttons and put it over her shoulders. With no thought to any exclusivity to Cruella’s wardrobe she dropped the bed sheet and clothed herself in it. Alonso watched as turning back towards the mirror where Cruella was seated she began to saunter towards the vanity. He had a clearer view of her face. Her dark features were even more stunning to him now in the vivid striped robe. The top portion of the robe was left unclasped, giving Alonso an unadulterated display of her small but perfectly rounded breasts. Only when she seated herself beside Cruella DeVil on her vanity bench did she begin to close the robe completely. She sat facing the rear of the room, turning towards Cruella as if they were seated on an old fashioned love seat. 

“Vhere should I go this mornink?” She said lazily, turning and taking a hair brush from the assortment of beautifications on the vanity. 

“Darling that is entirely your decision. You remember the time of our-

“Yes, of course,” The woman interrupted playfully, leaning against Cruella DeVil’s shoulder.

Alonso had never known Cruella to be demonstrative in her physicality. It seemed like a weakness in her estimation to show any display of affection. But despite what to Alonso’s eyes resembled a one-time liaison, the dynamic between them hardly seemed newly acquainted. Cruella’s eyes were fixed onto the woman in the reflection of the mirror. There was a mischievous, nearly conceited look across her face; Alonso only recognized it as a look of a satisfaction she would often reveal after acquiring a new and rare pelt. Once the woman had completed the task of brushing her hair, Cruella turned to face her and with a gesture of her hand, ran her finger down the length of the woman’s arm causing her to   
stop from rising from the bench. He had never seen anyone so thoroughly seductive with so minimal an action. 

When she was seated again, Cruella DeVil with no preamble leaned closer to her face and kissed her lips. When the initial surprise passed over Alonso, he observed it to be a greedy kiss on Cruella’s part. Like a vampire taking the last ounce of blood before altogether abandoning his victim. 

“You should go.” Cruella whispered. Alonso could not stop his eyes from staring at their repartee.

Turning away with an air of one dismissing a servant, Cruella DeVil looked back into the reflection in the mirror, applying liner to the corners of her eyes. She did everything but gesture that she desired the vanity bench to be solitarily occupied again. 

This frigidity seemed feigned, Alonso observed to himself. The woman, who seemed not to be offended by her frankness, rose up and stood behind Cruella’s back. Like a scene out of a Raphaelite painting she kissed the top of Cruella’s head like the prince trying to rouse the slumbering maiden. Cruella DeVil kept on with applying powder to her face, seemingly unmoved. When the woman began to make her way back towards the disarrayed bed chamber, Cruella DeVil looked towards Alonso standing beside the door.

Without having to say a word, Alonso kept his composure as he gave Cruella DeVil a reassuring nod. In a deliberate manner, Cruella picked up her cigarette from the vanity tray and while smiling, drew the mouthpiece across her neck imitating the stroke of a razor. Alonso understood. No circumstances he could think of would ever force him to break the confidence she had entrusted to him now. 

He then realized what it was that influenced Cruella DeVil to force him to go in advance to the offices.

Alonso felt himself more and more pulled into the circle of her trust where at last, he was able to take pride that he had proven himself worthy. Even the most trivial thing which would make her acknowledge his existence was more gratifying than anything he could hope for from any other woman. He realized, alone in the kitchen that morning, that even if he left the House of DeVil, he would never find another woman like Cruella DeVil. He could witness her liaisons with dozens of men and women and still feel somehow incomplete in her absence. This job too, despite its rigors, was the best he had ever occupied, financially speaking. And even in the action of bestowing trust in his discretion, Alonso knew it was another facet of her life he was given access; even if the things she did would otherwise betray his admiration. Nobody’s perfect, Alonso said to himself. And the job is a jjj..job, remind yourself that and stop getting so caught up.

The seeds of his loyalty were irreversibly planted.

Some weeks later, Alonso found himself following Cruella DeVil down Mincing Lane. She had never been accustomed to walking anywhere and her idea of dressing in a more nonchalant fashion was still outrageous for street clothes; strutting down the sidewalk like a peacock in a black and white fur lined trench coat with a skirt that better belonged on a 50’s style party dress. Alonso was beginning to form his own opinions on fashion. Instead of questioning he followed closely behind surveying the crowds around her that stared. Instinctively he walked closer than usual, feeling like her only source of protection especially with what had happened with the protester earlier that year. 

He didn’t even voice an objection when five, wordless, minutes later she crossed the street with her eyes focused on the entrance to a tube station. Her tall, nail like heels sounded loudly in the narrow staircase. Her eyes, which were concealed by her blaring red sunglasses, looked in all directions when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Finding an object or person of focus, Alonso saw Cruella DeVil walk decidedly towards the left side of the foyer. The people coming in her directions split their migrations to either side of her when the approached if only to make room for her sizeable coat. Alonso saw her stop in front of a long tiled wall, an exhalation of satisfaction sounding from her throat. 

Alonso caught up to her and let his eyes rest on the wall. It was the new editorial campaign for the winter couture show. In large, square shaped letters the logo dominated the lower portion of the poster showing The House of DeVil: Preview January 1996. In smaller print in the corner he saw the name of the model: Anyanka Letrevna. When Alonso’s eyes fell onto the model he felt a rush of recognition overtake his memory.

There, clothed in an oversized white fur coat, the brunette Aphrodite was on full display in the underground of the Tower Hill station.

“She looks magnificent, doesn’t she?” Cruella DeVil said out loud. She removed her sunglasses and Alonso watched her green eyes rove the entire width of the wall sized advertisement. Alonso could hardly believe the question had been prompted to him. 

“Yes,” Alonso said matter-of-factly. “She mmm…must be very special to you.” Alonso said out loud without thinking. The conversation had seemed so inviting that momentarily Alonso forgot who he was talking to. 

Cruella DeVil’s expression brightened; she looked Alonso plainly in the face and smiled broadly before breaking out into a spell of curt, ringing laughter. Seeing her laugh, even if a tad maliciously, no one could say Cruella DeVil wasn’t captivating to observe. Alonso smiled himself, knowing no other appropriate reaction. She ended the laugh elongating the syllable of the first word she spoke:

“Oh, Alonso, that is one thing I don’t think I shall ever understand about you.” She said, putting her cigarette back between her lips. Alonso turned to face her. 

“Wh..what’s that, Miss DeVil?” He said as gently as he could without seeming panged.

“How a man your age could be so completely naïve; but no matter, it’s also the quality I find the most useful.” Cruella DeVil said, beginning to cross him to return back to the exit   
to the station. A group of obvious, map wielding tourists saw Cruella DeVil heading towards them and took a photograph of her. When the flash caught her eyes, her stare caught the group and in a foreign language, they muttered in panic and dispersed themselves. Having cast away the distraction she turned back towards Alonso. 

“Well don’t just stand there!” Cruella DeVil resumed her icy demeanor, staring at him until he began to approach her. She did not continue walking until he reached her side.

If Cruella DeVil had a genuine affection for someone, she certainly had an unusual way of showing it. For a great deal of time, Alonso thought he was the only one who concealed an unrequited love. 

Nothing else to Alonso could explain Cruella DeVil’s retrograde behavior the following autumn.


	10. Lineage

Alonso found himself alone most evenings after eight. He would retreat to his quarters on the second floor and if no other task or occupation laid claim to his time, he would usually catch himself falling asleep before long. He had grown used to the loneliness. The time would continue to pass though, in spite of his ambitions. Every so often, when the house seemed silent as the grave, Alonso would make his way to the libraries on the ground floor. Cruella DeVil had never barred his presence from those rooms, so it never occurred to Alonso to seek permission.

The two libraries were his personal study now. Like puzzle pieces that had been broken apart and scattered across the room or hidden within the books, clues in Cruella DeVil’s past were provided as letters found amongst the aging encyclopedias. Usually hand written, the letters detailed the life of one General Maurice DeVille and his excursions accompanied most of the more well-worn collections. Other letters, in a much daintier handwriting with swirls and extravagant flourishes of ink showed another signature which differed from the ones he had previously come to recognize. The signature always included a single name with the initial of the last; Avis D. These letters were usually colorful in descriptions, naming off names of General’s wives and actors, photographers and models. Only when he had reached the end of a small collection assembled in a book detailing the French Revolution did Alonso find the connection. The elusive signature was that of Cruella DeVil’s mother. From the descriptions of magazine advertisements, photo shoots and designers constantly calling, Alonso had deduced for himself that her mother had been a fashion model. He was surprised however by the notable lack of correspondence between mother and father regarding their only daughter. He spied the name Lenora only two or three times in the multitudes of letters which were being discovered on a weekly basis. 

And so, week by week, only sneaking away after hours, Alonso had started on the second level of book shelves from the very top level of the ladder, all the way down until he reached the floor. He skipped chapters at a time, skimming through the musty pages tanned and brittle from age until he could see handwriting or in best cases, a folded note concealed within the sleeve. On occasion, with the notes, were long strips of papers which looked as if they had been put through a shredder which contained dashes and dots vertically down their slender bodies. It took having to find several of these, along with the transmitter which was hidden in a box beside the door, before Alonso realized that they were notes sent by Morse code.

Alonso wondered if Cruella DeVil had even been aware of the existence of such intimate history in her father’s possession. He knew it was something he could never make known to her willingly. Thinking to himself again the disorder of the room was the product of years of obvious neglect. Cruella DeVil had no concern in preventing the study to deteriorate in a forgotten part of the mansion. Then again, knowing her occasional demand for one of the books from the very library in question, Alonso realized she could not have been entirely without consciousness of the wealth of surviving ancestry.

When Alonso came to the first book in a set on the geography and wildlife of Kenya, there was a letter in a new handwriting. He looked at the bottom of the letter and saw the signature in an over the top cursive spelling the name Lenora DeVille:

Father,

I will take your invitation to join you in Nairobi when the term ends. The girls I’ve been forced to keep company with irritate me. Stuck in the Serengeti could be no worse than their frivolous hours of idle gossip. It has been a long time since I have tried my hand at wild game. It will be a thrill to hunt again. Surely, you will teach me proper techniques this time? What I know is child’s play to what I know you and your men practice daily. I don’t see a brother in my future to come along and usurp my claim to your men. Teach me instead.

Lenora DeVille  
(Ps. I had best not be sleeping on bare earth or kept in a tent with company; it may content the savages but not me. See to it if you please)

The smell of the books began to settle in Alonso’s nostrils, when he was caught in the pursuit he lost track of the time and more than once found himself sneaking back up the stairs in the early morning hours and forcing sleep, even for a few hours. He chastised himself when this happened; he was always probed by Cruella DeVil when he seemed drowsy in his morning routines. Alonso offered simple explanations; bad dreams, restlessness, anything to satisfy her and conceal the facts. It was always torturous to him, however, that the glimpses into her past which left holes begging for explanation he could never muster up the courage to ask Cruella DeVil herself. Perhaps someday, Alonso thought to himself, he could find himself in a position of a confidante and conduct an interview. He realized, when the thought of an interview crossed his mind, that Cruella DeVil herself seemed shut off from the press. For being the head of a house of high fashion, it surprised him how little the world knew of her private life. He could envision multitudes of magazines, Vogue, Vanity Fair, and Life, all clamoring for their chance to show the world the real Cruella DeVil. Alonso felt a burst of pride fill his heart, realizing he knew more than any magazine could dare hope for. 

Alonso pieced together what he knew for himself.

Lenora DeVille was born in October the year 1957, the only child of English model Avis (her given name he had yet to find) and French commander (and later General) Maurice DeVille. In the few times Lenora DeVille had been mentioned amongst her parent’s letters, each time a different school or academy was named. The time difference was never very long, leading Alonso to believe she had been passed between them unexpectedly for reasons he had yet to discern. Each time, however, the mother never conveyed the news with surprise. Alonso could assume, knowing her temper now, as a child its presence may have been tenfold of what it was as an adult. Cruella DeVil as a little girl seemed more than capable of being the perfect terror to an unfortunate educator. Given the number of gifts mentioned being sent back to England from the General’s excavations and the unlimited sum of money bestowed during the month of her birthday, Alonso could also assume she was a well-kept, spoiled little rich girl with nothing in the world her father could deny being so distant so frequently. He assumed, with the sudden loss of correspondence in the summer of 1965, that Avis DeVille had died unexpectedly. Despite this, Alonso saw no increase or even a trace of regular letters between Lenora and her widowed father. 

When he reached the small collection on the histories and counties of England, Alonso found to his surprise a worn, officially sanctioned deed to an estate. The property was listed as being ten miles north of Ipswich, in Suffolk. It was authorized as being purchased by Maurice DeVille in the spring of 1972 for the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. Blueprints which seemed even older than the book it was concealed in accompanied the deed in a stamped envelope. It was a sprawling mansion, even larger than Cruella’s in-town residence. Two entire farm houses complete with barns and grazing fields for livestock were included in the multi-acre estate.

Alonso began to wonder what the breadth of the DeVille fortune truly was. 

Alonso, compared to the DeVille family, had what everyone could call humble beginnings. His father had for most of his life had been a mechanic in a shop servicing European vehicles of all types and models. He was an only child; his mother had taken odd jobs in the neighborhood where he lived to help make ends meet. Alonso had been instilled the value of hard work early on in his life. He often joined his mother for those days, usually loving hard labor or tasks which required the full use of his faculties.   
Alonso found himself thinking of his mother unexpectedly as he came across another letter from Avis DeVille.   
The lack of affection, or even terms of endearment when referring to the little Lenora DeVille depressed him. The letters were stoic, as though they were writing about a shared patient between two doctors rather than a little girl who for reasons unknown, had again been suspended from a boarding school for tearing at the hair of a fellow classmate. Avis DeVille made no mention of speaking to her daughter or berating her on the unruly behavior. The tone of the letters revealed to Alonso that they wrote of her as if she were a separate entity, something disconnected from the immediate lists of concerns which her mother and father corresponded over. 

Just as he reached the end of the letter, Alonso heard the bell toll from the clock. He counted the chimes. It was midnight. Alonso folded the letter between his hands and set it back inside the leaf of the book. 

Having found he was alone in the house with nothing to occupy his thoughts, Alonso allowed his focus to make study of the very room he had passed through countless times without notice. The foyer of the mansion was a set of grand staircases which on the first landing, split into two sets of stairs on either side leading to the second floor. The walls were covered in portraits, each one showing an ancestor (to his assumption) of the DeVille family. Between the portraits were artifacts, no doubt brought back from the General’s many trips across ancient lands and ruins. Alonso recalled in that moment too, the reason for the glass cases and displays in the front foyer of The House of DeVil were also home to these precious artifacts. Anyone who had not known the origin of Cruella DeVil’s family history with such priceless proofs of history would find them strange to be in the possession of a fashion designer. Especially since according to Alonso’s knowledge of her transactions, Cruella DeVil was no longer an active collector of anything save furs and pelts. All of this was proof enough to Alonso that much of the décor was the result of an inheritance. 

Glancing back towards the grand foyer one last time before entering the darkened hallway to his bedroom, he felt the weight of the house lay on his subconscious like the effects of a bad dream. The house was truly devoid of anything which Alonso could identify as homey. The museum treatment further alienated him from any trace of feeling as though the building had been lived in on a familial scale.

Alonso found his mind envisioning past events. He wondered if the halls of the DeVille house ever echoed with laughter, or bustled with the lively chatter of friends and acquaintances. 

Never before had Alonso felt the impulse to love Cruella DeVil as strongly as he did then. Had he been born with a spine filled with bravery and confidence, he could fantasize the moment when hand in hand, he would take Lenora DeVille and show her what it meant to have a devotion which went beyond the material security which her father had provided. Perhaps than, he theorized, her unsettling relationship with a deep seeded disillusionment could finally give way to reveal the woman buried beneath; encased in layers of tough, thick fur which like the skin of a bison provided protection from the everyday daggers. Most days he didn’t believe such an interior existed. Against his judgment, the conviction   
became his only comfort. She must, Alonso thought, everyone has a heart. It seemed impossible.

And even after illusions are lost, everyone, Alonso caught him thinking, deserves to be loved. Even if that love may have gone unnoticed or unrequited, the realization of the void of human affection which encircled Lenora DeVille reprised his faith; at least in his own heart.


	11. Spots

Alonso remembered when the decline began. It all started with a designer’s idle pen.

Alonso had known Anita Campbell-Green to be an early bird. She was often the first designer at her desk in the mornings. There didn’t seem anything unusual or striking about that particular day thus far. Alonso was stationed at the neighboring designers table; helping to count and sort an inventory of buttons. He had been sent to the office early, having left tea and coffee for Cruella DeVil and her girl of the moment. He was happy to be at the office. During his work he saw Anita pull out two photographs from her purse. From that distance he could see they were pictures of a Dalmatian. He saw Anita’s eyes look over two sketches she had completed but yet to have filled in with the chosen print. Than with a smile she pushed aside the inspirational photos of stripes assembled by the design team. Like a child doodling with crayons she rested her head on her arm and began to sketch. Without as much as a word, Alonso knew she was simply creating for her own sake. Alonso could see the genuine pleasure she took in the work and the chuckle of delight when she saw part of the print completed. Alonso set down the box of buttons; the phone was beginning to ring incessantly.

A whirlwind of activity later he found himself in Cruella DeVil’s office. Anita was seated across from her with the Dalmatian print fashion rendering between them. Alonso could hear their conversation from his place beside the door. Cruella DeVil had never questioned Anita in such a manner and it struck Alonso as curious; much of the things she had pointed out were facets of Anita’s character made clear to her before. There was something tactical in this but Alonso couldn’t figure out what. Though Alonso had an obvious advantage over most humanity, much of Cruella’s behavior was still a mystery to him even after almost a year and a half. 

When Anita was dismissed from the office, Alonso could see Cruella DeVil begin to pace in front of her desk. Alonso watched cautiously. Cruella DeVil composed herself from her outburst of laugher. Alonso was surprised by how much enjoyment she had taken out of the notion of making coats with prints similar to dog skins. Humble domestic dogs seemed the complete opposite to the animals celebrated in the fur trade. Keeping to his corner next to her chaise he was surprised when she began to speak sotto-voce;

“To think, from my sweet, simple Anita!” Cruella said. A rush of excitement overpowered her. With girlish delight, she set the cigarette down and clasped her shimmering, gloved hands in front of her mouth. 

“Alonso,” Cruella DeVil addressed him. He came scurrying towards her and stopped at the edge of her desk. “Is it true?” She said, staring into his eyes.

“Www…what true, madam?” He asked.

“That she has no ‘prospects’?” Cruella said, her eyebrow rising to heighten her inquiry, “You are at the center of everything here I trust you would know something of the lives of my designers.” 

Alonso had never been solicited for such information, least of all from Cruella DeVil. Looking at Cruella, Alonso’s mind like a linguist assembling a broken language recalled moments between Cruella DeVil and Anita Campbell Green. 

Suddenly he was overcome with the desire to encourage his own intuition. What was the reason for Cruella DeVil’s interest in the private life of Anita Campbell- Green?

There had to be something

Looking back, Alonso recalled how after the unanimously successful reception of Anita’s first design for the Chesterton Trials in the press, Cruella DeVil assigned her to the event permanently. Time had passed of course, work resumed, but little by little Anita Campbell Green began to make a silent ascension in the rank of the designers. She was moved to a closer desk. Cruella’s invitations to private dinner parties were made, even though declined. Cruella DeVil was not one for compliments or displays of affection amongst spectators, and Alonso could scarce imagine Cruella DeVil having a heart for anything but her collections. 

Or?

It was entirely possible, Alonso contemplated. 

There was always a look Alonso had caught; he saw it on his first day when Cruella stood modeling on the runway in Anita’s gown. A coquettish smile had perpetually reappeared within her eyes whenever Anita was in her line of sight. She was less stern with her in their dealings, more inclined to make jest of a comment that would otherwise be delivered with venom to any other designer. They must not have spoken more than two to three words to each other each day. Alonso caught his own thoughts meandering and laughed at himself inwardly.

It wasn’t possible.

That very morning, and the several others he had been witness too, supported this. To Cruella DeVil, sex was sex, nothing more. Nothing near any resemblance of genuine love ever interrupted her status quo. There was always an aloofness Cruella DeVil practiced over those short, uncomfortable breakfasts. He only counted two men thus far in her conquests, proving her tastes were undoubtedly partial to women. There was a singular exception in her life which Alonso had been forced to contend with. He had since learned after the first visit to number 7 Highgate Square, Gabriel (or Gabe as she often teased) had shared a past with Lenora DeVille which reached far beyond regular business transactions. He knew as much from the first encounter. Two or three times in the months that followed she would visit at other locations across the city, or the last, he had arrived at her doorstep with no other safe haven from the authorities who stalked the locations of his illegal activities with growing intensity. Despite her balking at his intrusion it was a mere hours before Alonso had passed the hall to find her door locked and his company at breakfast the next morning. The other rare male species was an advertising salesman who was head of her recent campaign. That man, Alonso recalled, was relentless; their chemistry indisputable even to themselves. Their battle of words had given out on the day of his last pitch in her office. The memory flashed behind Alonso’s eyes. He was no longer shocked by it. Cruella DeVil was, in every sense, a predator, and only when she found another person, man or woman, with the same lust for dominance did she cater to her baser instincts.

Looking back, while giving up his hope of ever truly loving Cruella DeVil the way he wished, it had yet to deter him from serving her with the entirety of his own standards of devotion.

But this protective interest in Anita Campbell-Green was something unfamiliar to Alonso’s knowledge of Cruella DeVil’s character.

Alonso, who had learned to read Cruella DeVil’s expressions so thoroughly from his own desire of understanding, could barely fathom the existence of the wall which evident through their simple exchange was collapsing before him. He felt ashamed of himself. Alonso, who wanted as the sole fulfillment of his own affection for Cruella DeVil to share in the confidences of her life, had omitted perhaps the most vulnerable secret she concealed; her love for Anita Campbell-Green.

Alonso simply couldn’t tell anymore. She seemed in an instant to betray any safeguards which she had built in trying to hide her excitement at the prospect of Anita’s new found importance. 

“Www….well, I know she is unmarried.” Alonso began to utter. Cruella DeVil kept her eyes locked on his face. 

“She lives near the Regent’s Park…’afraid that’s all I know for the mm..moment.” 

After his words reached her ears, Cruella DeVil broke from her stare. She turned away from him and again took up her cigarette from the holder on the desk. She stood at the top of the stairs, placing her hand on her hip as she turned towards the door. Alonso couldn’t hold his questions; taking a deep breath and banking on her trust in his discretion he   
found the courage to speak:

“What dd..does all this mean, Miss DeVil?” 

“It means, Alonso, we’ve more than one reason now for keeping our eyes on my darling Anita. She is invaluable to me now. That coat could be the break we’ve been waiting for, just think of it!” 

“Of what, Miss DeVil?” Alonso said, distracted by her energized movements.

“Dalmatian spots, darling, why haven’t we thought of that before?” Cruella DeVil said; her smile lighting up her face in the midst of her epiphany. “It’s genius! No other animal has such dazzling spots!”

To date, Alonso had never heard anything so bizarre pass from Cruella DeVil’s lips. Perhaps he had been wrong. What did Anita’s relationship status after all have to do with this spotted coat? 

He had no idea that the spots would be the most destructive example of obsession he had ever come to witness.


	12. The Dove

April 7th, 1964

To Avis DeVille,

It is unusual for me to write to a parent of one of our pupils without the permission of the headmistress but Mrs. DeVille I feel I must relay to you an incident which took place last week concerning your daughter, Lenora. While her temper has improved, the behavior she displayed to me last week has so unsettled me as it has taken me just so long to compose this letter to you in sufficient terms. 

Last week when I was recalling the girls back to the classroom from their outdoor recess, I noticed your daughter in the far corner of the courtyard. She had assembled in her hands several feathers from a turtle dove which, poor creature, had by all appearances flown into the window just above the stone wall. It is normal this time of year to be startled by their accidental collisions with the glass above the dormitories. Only this bird had broken its’ wing and Lenora was staring at it while it struggled. Not knowing I had been watching her, she picked up the injured bird from the ground and took in both of her hands. I had thought for sure she would bring it to the attention of me or one of her peers. Mrs. DeVille, I am sorry to be writing this to you, but I must relay the circumstances as they happened.

To my surprise and horror, Lenora took the crippled bird and struck its head hard against the stone wall. Mrs. DeVille she killed it, and before I could step forward to scream at her in my distress she had opened her hands and began to pluck the feathers from its’ wings. I ran over to her and I am sorry to say, pulled her with force back to the steps. I was too emotional, Mrs. DeVille, I raised my voice, I was crying visibly when I asked her why she had done it. Without a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. DeVille, this is what she said to me:

“Have you ever seen such beautiful feathers, Miss. Harker? It was going to die anyway-

Alonso folded the letter roughly, crumpling up the edges in his hand as he felt his heart sink.


	13. Alterations

Cruella DeVil always had a private fitting for a new ensemble once or twice a week. The clothes were hand-picked from the best of her design team and often recut or tailored with intense scrutiny before Cruella would voice her approval. Alonso came to take genuine pleasure in observing these fittings. Not only were they a chance to see the craft which went into the garments from the army of talent around him, but also a chance to rediscover his appreciate for the object of his devotion. Whenever in front of a mirror, whether clad in the finished garment or waiting enrobed, gave Alonso the chance to admire Cruella DeVil unadulterated. They always began with a blank canvas. Alonso had an entirely new appreciation for the side of Cruella DeVil’s wardrobe he was embarrassed to admit to having knowledge of; her extensive collection of custom lingerie. She was never without a corset. They were always modern in cut and often printed in stripes or patterns and were fortified with thick bands of boning. Alonso couldn’t fathom how uncomfortable they must have been. Even so, Cruella DeVil relished in their manipulations. It was here, and only here, one could ever say her body had hidden imperfections. The designers were the masterminds who deceived the eyes. Layers of feathers, beads, slashes, pleats, exaggerated shoulders, could cleverly distract one from noticing the less than ample bosom or the less than fashionable proportions of her figure. This didn’t bother Alonso; it was more than repaid in the drastic slope from her petit waist to her curvaceous hips. Each ensemble created a unique silhouette, and Cruella DeVil often had a hand in each to ensure the best deception. 

Alonso would not have had reason to be so particularly attentive at this fitting if it wasn’t the first from Anita Campbell-Green since his new instruction. 

The draped off room beside the mirror in the fitting room was pushed open. Cruella DeVil walked out onto the square shaped platform and stood before the triangular mirror. She was without her cigarette, which was the first inconsistency to catch Alonso’s attention. She looked at her reflection. A tiger striped corset covered her top half and a column shaped leather skirt covered her feet to the floor several inches too long. Her shoulders were bare, but her hands and arms covered by black gloves which ended just above her elbows. Anita followed, emerging with a long cape in the same tiger print slung over her shoulder. Anita set down the cape on a chair beside the curtain and lifted her supplies from beside the platform. Cruella DeVil was unusually quiet. Alonso stood next to the entrance of the room and watched, near enough to them to be within full earshot of their impending conversation. As if with a snap, Cruella DeVil smiled and set her hands onto her hips, looking altogether pleased with the ensemble thus far.

“Your cuts are simple, Anita, but they are clean.” Cruella said, her voice skipping along high and low notes like an off tune melody. 

“Thank you,” Anita whispered sheepishly, setting the first pin into the hem on the black leather skirt which buckled when handled; making it more resemble shimmering, pliable metal than cow skin. 

“Have you given any more thought to what I’ve offered you?” Cruella DeVil said. Alonso checked his memory. He had no knowledge of what she could be referring to. He listened without restriction. Anita, who had hitherto been focusing her eyes solely on the fabric between her fingers, looked up whilst keeping her place on her knees beside Cruella’s feet. Just then, Alonso noticed looking at her hand that a ring was set on her ring finger. There was no diamond, nothing striking about it, but he had never seen Anita fashion anything on her hands before. She was the least bejeweled of the designers who surrounded him so the addition of a ring, even if trivial to others, seemed a glaring signal of alarm to his eyes. Still not speaking, Anita looked down again and kept to her work. Expecting the silence to go on, Alonso anticipated the conversation was over when Anita’s clear voice suddenly broke the void:

“I’m flattered Cruella, truly, but I need time to consider. Things are happening very quickly-

“What things?” Cruella interrupted. Her voice was faltering, for the first time Alonso could hear the insecurity begin to manifest in her voice. Anger was not Cruella DeVil’s most becoming quality but she possessed it nevertheless. Even now, her temper was checked, but the churning underbelly of it was still emerging from the tone of her voice despite her air of joviality. 

Anita looked up again. Her blue eyes, so beaming with innocent truth when compared to the innate complexity of Cruella DeVil’s, seemed to possess the sword which slayed any defenders of Cruella’s pride.

“Cruella, I’ve met someone.” Anita confessed. “I don’t know where it’s going, but I want to see it through if we can make it work. This could be my last chance for a family.” 

Cruella DeVil’s eyes broke away suddenly from Anita’s. She stared forward into the reflection of the mirror, walking two steps past Anita on the floor and running her hands arbitrarily across her waist. 

“Such a shame to see talent go to waste!” Cruella asserted, admiring her own shape. Alonso, having attuned his ears to Cruella DeVil’s modulations, heard bitterness escape in her tones for the first time. Anita left no empty air:

“I haven’t made a decision yet, Cruella, I need time!” Anita said, her volume rising as she shuffled in place on the platform to face her. 

“Anita, don’t be so foolish as to-

“Cruella, please don’t judge me!” Anita snapped, staring up at Cruella DeVil. 

Alonso set his back against the wall. He never heard Anita Campbell-Green talk like that before. The conversation fizzled into silence when Cruella caught sight of Anita’s face in the reflection of the mirror. Anita’s eyes were filling with tears. 

Alonso had been witness to Cruella DeVil’s recurrent habit of causing her employees to break out in mortified fits of weeping from her harsh criticism; men and women alike. They never had an effect on her composure at all until that moment. Alonso saw the beginnings of remorse betray Cruella DeVil’s stern expression. The pause was at last broken.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Cruella whispered, turning to look Anita in the eyes. Alonso was stunned. Apologies were not in her vocabulary. Letting her right hand press gently onto Anita’s shoulder, Cruella continued: “But you know how I feel about you.”

Alonso held his breath. He saw no walls. Sincerity was present at last.

“Of course I do, Cruella, you have given me so many opportunities here and you’ve always encouraged my work. I don’t want to jeopardize my chances but I also want time to know what I want, surely you understand that.” Anita said, rising to her feet only to be met by the action of Cruella DeVil wiping her tears with the backs of her fingers. 

Alonso felt for himself the pang which must have found its way through the stratums of fortifications which guarded Cruella DeVil’s allegedly non-existent heart. The conversation proved everything he ever assumed. Nothing compared to this. The exposure of her private life, the liaisons, and the black market transactions, every other secret seemed like a harmless virtue compared to the rigorous defenses which were being stripped forcibly before his eyes at the mere allusion to the presence of love. Knowing her as well as he came to know her, the deliberate actions of comfort Alonso witnessed spelled out her love and sensitivity to Anita Campbell-Green as blatantly as if she had announced it from a speaker’s box.

“There is still so much for you here, Anita.” Cruella asserted. “What about next year’s line? You would be entirely in charge, your spots, you’ll receive full credit, think of the prospects!” She reached across the gap which laid between them while she remained on the platform. Cruella DeVil had placed her open palm on Anita’s cheek. The smile which broke Cruella DeVil’s lips apart gladdened Alonso’s heart. The fortress had been battered. In an instant, Cruella DeVil looked years younger, the rapture she enjoyed bestowing her own version of gold at the feet of her beloved pained Alonso to witness. He knew they were in vain and for the first time, knew exactly the desperation she was feeling because it matched his own. 

“We’re in this together, aren’t we darling?” Cruella said, placing her other hand on Anita’s face, holding her between both hands. Anita did not react. Alonso could see the reticence in her eyes to do anything that would anger her unexpectedly. 

Alonso had never thought he would ever want to see Cruella DeVil kiss another person with true passion. But in that moment he wanted some fraction of bliss for Cruella DeVil, in spite of everything. He found himself hoping for it to happen. Not from any carnal thrill the vision might provide but to have at least one person in this triangle get their wish, even if only once and never again. It surprised him, Alonso realized, just how much immeasurable wealth and power she possessed yet all of it did nothing when it came to what she truly wanted. What Lenora DeVille wanted, not Cruella. Alonso began to think of them as two different people. Still in the dark as to the details as to the reason of her alternative title, it was not difficult to treat them as singular, mutually exclusive entities. Her personality at times as well, leant itself to the idea of conflicting desires between the General’s daughter and the couturier that had the world watching her back. 

“I need some time, Cruella.” Anita said, pulling both of her hands off of her face. Trying with effort to stop her sniffling inhalations, Anita walked over to the chair beside the dressing room and lifted the cape from it. Cruella kept her eyes looking forward. Alonso watched as Anita stepped behind her and held the cape open. Resuming a regular series of actions for the room around them, Cruella DeVil set her arms back into the cape as Anita slid the yoke over her shoulders.

“I have some leave I haven’t taken yet. I want to take it now,” Anita said clearly, without any hesitation. She closed the knot across Cruella’s neck to hold the cape in place.   
“I need time to decide and I don’t think being here will help me come to a decision any faster.” 

Cruella DeVil resumed her charade. Dismissing any semblance of importance from the conversation she patted Anita on the shoulder and replied:

“Well than, take a vacation darling, you need distraction! If that’s what you wanted, all you needed to do was ask.” Cruella DeVil smiled. Alonso was engrossed. With pins still dangling from the hem of her skirt, Cruella stepped off of the platform and pushed aside the curtain to the dressing room. Anita exhaled with relief for the brief moment she was not in view. When Cruella DeVil came back out, her cigarette was freshly loaded and she leaned against the wall breathing in deeply, reveling in the tobacco filling her lungs as though it was a sedative to the invisible combat wounds she suffered. 

“Is this the only alteration it needs?” Cruella DeVil said, referring to the uneven margin of fabric hanging behind her ankles. Anita nodded. 

“Yes.” She replied. Taking up the supplies from beside the platform Anita walked towards the door. Without instruction, Alonso opened it to allow her exit from the room. Still   
leaning against the pillar which held the tiebacks to the curtains, Cruella DeVil methodically exhausted the smoke from her lips in a deliberate manner. Alonso knew his timing might have been better prepared, but before the memory escaped him he took two steps from the door and addressed Cruella where she stood:

“Did you see the rrr…ring she was wearing, Miss DeVil?” Alonso said, holding his hands in front of him. Her eyes locked onto his face. 

“Did I ask for your useless analysis, Alonso?” Cruella hissed. The barriers and artillery were set out on defense again. Alonso felt helpless: 

“I only th…thought-

“You thought what?!” Cruella shouted, tossing the already spent cigarette towards his head. Cruella began to pull the knot across her neck apart to remove the cape as though by the minute, it began to cause a rash across her shoulders. Temper flares were common to Alonso, but never like this. He knew he was in the dead zone. He did all he could save hunker down to his knees and await the detonation. Alonso braced himself for the barrage of profanity sure to be laid into his ears. But there was nothing. When he opened his eyes from the wince he sustained, Cruella DeVil had picked up one of the sample shoes from the collection assembled on the floor. Passing the first open chamber, she threw the pointed end of the stiletto towards the mirror. Alonso felt his heart jump within his chest when the top half of the mirror shattered into pieces with a loud crash. It broke apart in shards of circular ripples, as though a bullet had struck the epicenter. 

Alonso had at last seen the marrow.


	14. Victory

Alonso watched as Cruella DeVil paced impatiently between her bedroom and her sitting room. The lights had been dimmed and a scattered assortment of various candles had been lit. It was late. She had summoned him when he was finally deep in sleep. It was nearly one in the morning. Cruella it seemed had to be expecting someone, for instead of wearing her usual lingerie and robe she designated for sleep, she had clad herself in a dress of rattlesnake print. He waited for instruction, silently embarrassed and praying he was not summoned to serve the needs of a late night liaison. She had never asked him to help in such dealings previously. Alonso stood beside the door and covered his mouth to hide his involuntary yawn. Cruella DeVil paused momentarily in front of her footboard, looking back into the room with focused eyes. Something was happening. Alonso had never seen her show any sign of nerves or unease before. Her steps were deliberate. She was inhaling the tobacco slowly, seeming to momentarily delay her anxiety with each concentrated exhale. The jewelry on her neck and wrists glittered in the candlelight. Ostrich feathers accented her shoulders and swayed in individual directions with her every move as if each single feather were animated with its’ own life. Suddenly, as if remembering something important, she set down the cigarette onto the table in front of her chaise. 

“Alonso, get me a drink.” She ordered.

Alonso walked slowly to the mini bar which, on first appearance, resembled a cabinet with a set of doors painted over in pale blue flames beside her fireplace. Upon opening, the flickering candle lights from the room reflected on the various shapes of the glasses in her collection. Wine and martini glasses with irregular, asymmetrical stems painted over in stripes were favorites of hers. Carefully he extracted a tall clear bottle with a wide spout. Suddenly impatient, Cruella had risen from the chaise and stood beside him at the bar. She shoved him aside carelessly. Taking a stout high-ball glass from the upper shelf, she poured a generous amount of the clear alcohol (which Alonso knew to be gin) and without a pause to breathe forced it down her throat before hurling the glass into her fireplace. If Alonso had been half asleep before, the shattering of the glass and small burst of flames from the remnants of burning liquor certainly roused his senses. The reckless action had no immediate effect on her anxiety. Cruella DeVil returned to her chaise, laying her back against the arm and keeping her recovered cigarette aloft in front of her chest. 

Feeling another yawn threaten at his lungs, Alonso was startled out of it by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Cruella DeVil turned towards the door as if overtaken by a muscle spasm, betraying any effort to remain calm. 

“Finally, do these men know the meaning of efficiency?” She said to herself, sitting upright on the chaise before addressing Alonso directly.

“Get the door; bring a pot of tea, after that you can retire for the night.” Cruella spoke deliberately, as if ordering her own actions as well as his. 

Making his way through the darkened hallway, he heard the chime again when he reached the landing on the stairs. It was all so eerie, he thought to himself, still feeling his legs shimmy from weariness. He set his hand on the lock and turned it. The hinges of the door echoed a squeal into the empty vestibule. 

When Alonso opened the door, he had the overwhelming fear that he had been trapped in a nightmare. A man who seemed as though he were created by a horror author stood before him. He was an old man of average height, with broad shoulders cloaked in a long black coat. A fedora hat concealed his hair but his throat, to Alonso, exposed the proof which made Alonso doubt his eyes. A series of lines assembled across the front of his neck revealed a massive scar which looked as though the man’s throat at some past accident had been ripped apart and torn open. Patches of skin were surrounded by the white scars, the disturbing vision of the segments of his flesh being completely peeled from his neck like wrapping paper made Alonso tremble. The man made no sound, only groaned breathily to address Alonso where he stood. Alonso stepped back to allow his entrance.   
In an instant, he could make no scenario in his mind to justify his relationship with Cruella DeVil. He suddenly felt more fear for her than he felt for himself. He knew of all the women in the world who could decimate an attacker it was Cruella DeVil, but he feared for her safety nevertheless. His exhaustion made his mind think such rash, unusual thoughts. As he escorted the man to the entrance to her chamber, he noticed he carried a worn leather portfolio. Cruella DeVil’s visitor looked like an undertaker; an air of death accompanied him. Alonso couldn’t rationalize his assumptions. Hoping to dispel his fears he opened the door to Cruella’s boudoir and awaited her reaction.

He found it to be of no comfort that when Cruella DeVil’s eyes fell on the man, a radiant smile broke across her lips. 

She approached him holding out her hand, Alonso than noticed the diamond studded snake bracelet adorning her wrist. The man, with every vestige of familiarity, took her hand and kissed it. Alonso half expected Cruella DeVil to freeze instantaneously, as though being kissed by him was to be kissed by the Black plague, and swoon to death like a poisoned princess amongst her furs and feathers. He felt delirious.

“Mr. Skinner,” Cruella whispered. “Thank you for making yourself available so late.” She ignored Alonso at the door and gestured for the scarred man to sit on the chair across from her chaise. Alonso recalled the name being mentioned by her once before. The two men who had been seen driving a weather beaten garbage truck had delivered her a present from the so called ‘Mr. Skinner’ some weeks before. They were the two brothers whom Cruella DeVil had employed toward the end of the summer to carry out some of her more tedious private transactions; Horace and Jasper Baddun.

It was the same morning Cruella DeVil had received the shock that during her leave, Anita Campbell-Green had been married to a Roger Dearly. Alonso recalled how she had conducted her pleasure at the sight of the brother’s delivery, a spectacular Siberian tiger pelt, but on the instant they left her company, she had thrown down the pelt across the foot of her bed. Lost in her own anger, Alonso watched her walk back to the other side of the room and pick up the nuptial page she had crumpled and thrown in rage.   
“How?” She had said out loud again. Alonso could see the façade beginning to crumble. Alonso knew of his own knowledge she was nearing forty years of age. Yet in that single moment, Alonso could see nothing but a broken hearted girl, staring at the nuptial page as though it were a long lost Valentine from a first love. Skirting the brink of tears, Cruella DeVil tossed down the unfurled page again, crossing back to the tiger pelt on the bed and rather than lifting it into her arms, lain atop it and stroked the top of its’ head as tenderly as if it were her bedfellow.

“There is hope I may not lose her yet,” Alonso heard her whisper to herself. “She couldn’t possibly turn down the spots collection. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.” She pulled the pelt against her chest, holding the face of the magnificent tiger over her head and looking into its glassy, lifeless eyes.

“At least you’ll never leave me, darling.”

Breaking from his memory to return to the present moment, Alonso set his eyes back on Cruella’s current visitor. The man still had not uttered a word. In the next moment, the very question of the absence of conversation was answered when the man pulled out a silver tool from his briefcase. Looking at Cruella DeVil he began to tap in a systematic manner on the surface of the glass table in front of him. 

Cruella DeVil’s green eyes kept her focus on the tool which Alonso realized was a scalpel. Alonso stared, dumbfounded. When the man finished the series of taps, Cruella DeVil smiled again, lifting her eyes and letting a chuckle of delight leave her throat. 

What language was this? Alonso realized as his chameleon was shocking him again. His exhausted mind brought the memories back to his focus intuitively, seeing again the strips of spotted paper in the pages of the books; the Morse code messages coming to audible life before him. 

“So many already?” She said with unmistakable glee. “The last of them are being delivered tonight. Once I get the call the preparations can begin to be made. I have already given Jasper the advance to cover their cost.” Cruella DeVil seemed on an emotional brink, the nerves he had witnessed before had given way to a girlish excitement which still vague as to the source, disturbed him. Cruella DeVil turned to the door and noticed Alonso.

“Don’t you want to offer Mr. Skinner a cup of tea?” She bellowed impatiently. Alonso went over cold again, this time from embarrassment, completely forgetting the task she had assigned him.

Before he could make the sentence form on his lips, the Mr. Skinner shook his head. Alonso looked back at Cruella. 

“Thank you, now go away.” Cruella DeVil said firmly. “I don’t need you anymore tonight.” 

Alonso was never one to disobey. Barring any instinct he had initially felt in wanting to delay his departure he turned his back on Cruella DeVil and left her candlelit chamber. As he closed the two doors behind him, Alonso heard the fragmented rapping on the glass continue on and on like a radio transmission. Another burst of laughter left Cruella DeVil’s lips, as though the bizarre mode of conversation was as indistinct and mundane as shop-talk between two genial neighbors.

Even when he made it back to his room, he couldn’t force sleep to overcome him again. He could hear it. A loud, even more deliberate outburst of laughter resounded down the hallway like the rush of air from the departure of a subway train. Alonso kept his ear beside his own door, even from such a distance to Cruella DeVil’s chamber he hoped the action would somehow make his senses heighten.

It was an incalculable time later that he heard another noise, this time closer to his proximity; causing him to stand up from his seat against the door. It was footsteps. They were rubber sole shoes, not the spikey, metal heeled shoes he had been accustomed to hearing with Cruella’s strut. 

Suddenly a single knock against the frame of his door shocked Alonso out of his daze. 

When he opened the door, Mr. Skinner was standing before him, holding out his right hand pointing down the hallway towards Cruella’s chamber.   
He groaned. Without another sound, he pointed again, than tipped his hat almost in a salute of goodnight to the exhausted valet. Alonso stepped back into his room, throwing his robe over his shoulders. He tied the robe around his waist leaving Mr. Skinner at his door as he made his way down the hallway to her chamber. He could hear no sounds, nothing that would indicate she had demanded his presence. 

When Alonso reached the turning to her chamber, he saw that her door had been left open. The lights in the room had been diminished; the glowing fire was all that was left to show the state of the room. Alonso stood in the doorway, looking across the room at the evidence of the unusual morning she had passed. The carafe of vodka was placed on the coffee table, next to a loose pile of paper with a list of what looked like last names and numbers next to each adding up to a tally of 99. The edge of the paper was jagged, as though it had been torn forcefully from the binding that clung to it. At the end of the list was the name Dearly accompanied by the number 15. He was baffled, and too exhausted to dwell on the coincidence. Looking next to the torn paper, Alonso noticed that the carafe had been emptied. Turning around from where he stood, he saw the wax from the free standing candles behind the chaise had dripped from the holders and left stalactites on the carpet. At first glance, he could see nothing of his mistress. Not until the log in the fireplace collapsed, sending a burst of light into the chamber did Alonso at last catch sight of Cruella DeVil.

Like a snake perched out in the afternoon sun Cruella DeVil had lain herself on the steps leading to her bedchamber. The light of her cigarette was close to her lips, her fashionable red holder altogether neglected. Against one hand, she lifted her head from the step, setting her black hair strewn against her face concealing part of her eyes. Her eyes caught the reflection of the fire. Seeing her uncertain balance even holding up her own head, Alonso could see on whom the carafe of gin had been emptied into. 

“There you are.” She whispered, her voice attempting to command authority though failing miserably at hiding her inebriation. Alonso felt himself tip toeing on thumb-tacs, never expecting to have seen Cruella in such a state he knew nothing of what to expect of her behavior. 

“I hate waiting.” She said clearly, inelegantly shifting her weight to lift her torso from the step. Cruella set her feet ahead of her, her ostrich feather skirts splitting to the knee as she set her feet flush to the ground. Without saying a word, she raised her right hand straight out in front of her, reminding Alonso of a less than flattering salutation. Knowing what this action meant, Alonso stepped forward and took her hand. 

“Why so dreary, Alonso?” Cruella DeVil said once standing, inches from his face enough that Alonso could smell the potent mix of gin and cigarettes on her breath. He had stomached it enough that despite the initial repulsion, the proximity of her lips was still near enough to excite him. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know what it feels like do you?” She continued, pressing her right hand into his shoulder so the snake bracelet on her wrist seemed poised to sting. 

“What, Miss DeVil?” He said carefully, putting his hand against her shoulder ready to fend her off as politely as he could. This was not what he wanted. He had always found it in the worst of taste when he saw the business men of his former employ at their company parties latching themselves to the one woman in the party who seemed less than capable of handling her drink. It had happened like clockwork at each festivity. He briefly remembered the various employers, whose names had already slipped from his memory to accommodate his new life, and their clumsy payoffs; often in the back seats. He hated the smell of alcohol and vomit mixed with leather. 

Without having to take any further action, Cruella DeVil stepped past him, her balance momentarily betraying her state. She reached the table with the empty carafe. Alonso stepped forward, anticipating she would reach for it but instead took the torn piece of paper with the curious names and numbers written in two columns. She crumpled it in her hands to keep it within her grip and walking back towards Alonso, held it in front of his face:

“To get everything you want!” Cruella DeVil shouted gleefully, her harsh laughter bellowing in Alonso’s weary ears; waking him further. “I told her I would get even!”

“What?” Alonso said out loud.

“No one rejects me, no one, not even her!” Cruella continued, taking the paper and tearing it between her hands and tossing the pieces onto the floor where they scattered like confetti. Alonso felt his heart begin to sink with fear. An instinct past anything he could account for regretted the destruction of the paper between her hands. Something told him it was important; but nothing seemed more important when in that next moment, Cruella DeVil had stumbled back towards him, and his own instinct served him again; catching her by her waist before she fell. Not allowing her to fall, Alonso righted her stance. When the breath reached Cruella again, she began to laugh. He had never seen her so delighted. Alonso could not account for it being the exclusive fault of the liquor. She had done something, Alonso thought, yet knew nothing of what she was referring to. Alonso knew he was seeing the ecstasy of victory.

Allowing her laughter to continue, Alonso set his arm around her shoulders and walked her slowly towards her bed chamber. As he passed the set of lights leading to the entrance, he saw tears beginning to leave the corners of her eyes; the laughter seeming to overwhelm her. Alonso couldn’t speak; couldn’t begin to do anything intrusive to her euphoria. Still being pliant to his control, Alonso set Cruella DeVil before the foot of her bed. Pushing against her shoulder he led her to sit down, the laughter now beginning to subside gradually. He reminded himself of what to do in such situations. She had to be put to bed. Alonso kneeled down and lifted the ostrich feathered skirts off of her feet. He looked quickly up at Cruella’s face. She was lost in thought, the laughter now gone. Keeping himself distracted from intruding on her silence, Alonso began to unbuckle the shoes from her ankles. Taking off the heel from her right foot, he suddenly felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. 

The dim light showed her smile had disappeared. The lines of salted tears reflected light across her cheekbones as she stared down at Alonso. It was as if she had never seen him before. Yet instead of the expression Alonso expected, most often confusion and delirium at this stage of drunkenness, Cruella DeVil’s face appeared to lose the bitterness which had so often clouded her unconventional beauty; the scowl which can make even the most beautiful of women unattractive. She always had a glare, a way of keeping every muscle of her face taught and poised to deceive that Alonso knew was a façade to some extent. Alonso could see that Cruella DeVil had disappeared and in the vacant expression, he saw   
Lenora DeVille for the first time. 

Alonso had no time to remember, all too quickly her eyes shut resolutely and by the sudden slant in her posture, Alonso could tell she had fallen unconscious; sliding forward and off of the bed. Frightened by the momentum of her swoon, Alonso held out his arms to catch her. She was weightless to him, her shoulders falling against his as he guided her into his arms. 

The last spark of the fire had burned out, leaving nothing but the glow of embers and darkness all around him.


	15. Flutter

Alonso closed his eyes and opened them to adjust to the new gloom; keeping the fallen maiden held against his left arm so her head rested against his neck. Her body had been forced to bend inelegantly. Alonso could see the bottom edge of her corset digging into her legs as she remained leaning upright. Shifting his own legs, he laid her back against the floor and kept his hand beneath her head. Slowly he withdrew his hand, groaning from the ache in his dormant muscles as he rose to stand and assess his next move. He looked over to the bed and pulled away the fur comforter. When he turned back to Cruella DeVil, Alonso returned to the floor beside her, slowly weaving his arm between her back and the carpet to raise her up. Adjusting his stance, he set his other arm under her knees. Alonso without any struggle stood up, hoisting her up from the floor. He could feel his muscles engage, his power coming from resources in his body never before elicited. Catching his breath, he stopped when a long, weary moan escaped Cruella DeVil’s lips. He froze. 

Feeling his heart begin to pound, Alonso looked down to see she had turned into his chest; instinctively raising her hand and draping her arm around his shoulder. He didn’t dare make another sound. He felt a chill go over him at the tingle from her plastic fingernails against the base of his neck. Alonso walked slowly around the foot of the bed, conscious of her breath returning in long, even intervals as her consciousness ended the brief hiatus. He set her down onto the layers of pillows and fur and stepped away; she was stirring, searching the folds of the fur blankets around her as her eyes began to flutter.

Alonso stepped back into the dark, watching her drift between sleep and wake, never feeling a stronger sense of devotion. She looked so helpless, of all women, the most powerful of all he had ever known, there was Cruella DeVil, lost in her own world. 

“Alonso…” She whispered. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming. 

“I’m here, Lenora.” He said, without stammer.

He had to be dreaming. When the last syllable of her name left his lips, she sighed.

“Potent isn’t it?” She whispered, a chuckle sounding from her throat. “If I had known it was stronger I would never have gone for the ink.” Cruella DeVil uttered further, turning into the pillow as an eerie series of giggles were smothered against the pillowcase. 

Ink, Alonso thought. A chill came over him. What did she do?

“Ink?” Alonso said out loud, rushing towards her and without any hesitation, taking her shoulders into his hands to turn her face towards him. “Have you poisoned yourself? Wha…what do you mean, ink?”

“No! No! Of course not you idiot!” Cruella DeVil replied suddenly alert. She pushed his arms away, settling herself back upright and leaning to her side. She was giddy, Alonso observed. Nothing made sense to him anymore. She caught his gaze in her eyes. Even in the darkness, Alonso could see a sparkle of delight in them. Cruella DeVil edged closer towards him. “That was a long time ago….a long time!” She said proudly, looking down to her lap and seeing her hand. She began to unhook the snake bracelet from her wrist, continuing as she did so.

“No, that was foolishness, never again. Not this time. Oh no, she’ll be the one with the broken heart, not me.” Cruella DeVil tossed the bracelet towards the foot of her bed. 

“Alonso, are you listening to me?!”

Alonso had never taken his eyes off of her. She had to assert his attention. “Yes, Miss DeVil.” He replied, kneeling down so his eyes were on the same level as hers. 

“It doesn’t work, you know. Who knew it wasn’t toxic?” She continued, beginning to unzip the wrists of her fitted sleeves.

“What wasn’t?”

“Ink.” She said, pulling her gloves off of her fingers. 

“You drank ink?” Alonso replied in disbelief. 

“Yes, when you’re sixteen and don’t know any better as to what is poison, you take what you can get.” Cruella DeVil tossed the gloves to the floor, turning her knees over towards Alonso to stand. Alonso remained where he was. He barely knew how to respond to what she had said. 

“Whh…what are you talking about? You shouldn’t say such things, you’re overexcited-

“Don’t you dare give me orders!” Cruella shouted into the air, sounding more and more like an unruly child. She had taken the diamond studded snake necklace from around her neck as she stood up. Before he could deflect, Cruella DeVil threw it forcefully at Alonso. He cowered too late to avoid the heavy head portion of the necklace hitting his shoulder. He kept his position cowered beside the bed, feeling as though he were peering up from beneath a trench. He heard the springs of the mattress undulate with her movements. They had stopped. Fearing she had fallen into unconsciousness again Alonso looked up from the floor. Cruella DeVil had lain across the bed with her face smothered between two pillows. The cursive initials of her name inscribed on each corner of the cases caught his eyes. He could hear her laughter begin to simmer to an audible tone again, the repressed sound causing her frame to tremble like the early vibrations of an oncoming earthquake. Alonso felt certain an apocalypse, if only on the level of his relationship to his employer, was impending. 

Why did she want to poison herself? Alonso kept asking himself in the back of his mind as he watched her. Was any of what she was uttering true?

Cruella DeVil turned her face out from between the pillows. Her now bare hands reached up to her brow and set aside several strands of her white, wayward bangs away from her eyes. Alonso watched her eyes catch the view of the canopy in the darkness, the drape of the fabric hanging over her bed like an ill hung sail. Their breathing, and the previous movements of their limbs in the space, moved the air enough to set the drapes fluttering in motion. Alonso kept his silence. He could find no words, not a single question or suggestion he could utter which would resolve their delicate situation. Only to say ‘yes’ and to yield to any action or whim which might strike her fancy. For a moment he forgot that he was a paid assistant; he acted and thought no differently than he would if his lover had been in such a state before him. And before he could answer for himself, Alonso knew that she was his lover in a sense. Alonso devoted his life and his care to her and, in a gesture far exceeding the expectations of the job, his heart as well. 

“Is there a window open?” Cruella DeVil spoke softly, keeping her eyes fixed on the canopy. 

“No,” Alonso replied quickly, “Would you like me to open one-

“So lovely,” Cruella continued aloud, “something so simple. The winds on the Serengeti are marvelous on nights like this.” Cruella DeVil turned her bodily over into her fur blanket. She pushed herself up from her reclining form and kept her gaze heavenward. Alonso stared in wonder. They were nothing but white draped curtains of fabric, with only glimmers of reflected light from the gold threaded fleur de lis which were embroidered in a repetitive pattern. Alonso’s ears were at attention; recalling the letter between Lenora and her father of her visit to the Serengeti. He kept his eyes on her. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Perhaps now, Alonso had finally found himself in the position of hearing the unanswered questions he had concealed for months. 

Instead, without a warning, Cruella DeVil turned inward back onto the bed, curling her body into her knees as a smile broke across her face. Alonso felt his face mimic her smile; for the first time, he thought he could recognize the happiness of love breaking through her façade. Instantly her face emitted its’ own light in the glow of her smile. Her violent temper had disappeared, and lost in her memories which he knew nothing of, he could see nothing but happiness. Alonso watched her in breathless awe, seeing in fleeting glimpses a contentment and satisfaction which was free from any notes of bitterness or malice. Her right cheek was cradled by thick folds of her gray mink blanket. She ran her bare hands across the blanket, petting it in long strokes before gathering it at a single point within her fist and pulling it against her breasts. Once the fur was flush against her collarbone, she unapologetically melted against it, closing her eyes and letting an exhalation turn into a sigh of pleasure. Than like a switch had been flicked, Cruella DeVil’s eyes opened and a palpable melancholy eradicated her bliss. Alonso leaned forward, feeling in his intuition that perhaps a sickness had overcome her. He didn’t know what to expect. 

“I would never be so concerned if he had been the one to do this for me.” She whispered, facing Alonso. She wanted to talk to him, Alonso realized. For once, Cruella DeVil was looking at his face directly when she spoke; longing to keep his attention. Her green eyes held his mind captive.

“Who, Lenora?” Alonso encouraged gently; suddenly insecure to use her name, yet hopeless to deny the thrill it gave his tongue to utter it.

“They’re idiots. I can’t trust them at all can I? Lionel won’t fail me; I know he will come through. Oh, those beasts, how could he let them catch him after all this time?” Cruella DeVil uttered, turning back into her pillows, hiding her face from Alonso. 

She did not stir. Alonso kept his eyes on her form as he listened carefully. Her breathing was uneven. To Alonso’s disbelief, he could hear short, muffled sobs smothered against her pillows. Alonso could do nothing which could preserve his aloof demeanor. Cruella DeVil was in distress, and against his every instinct to retain his duty as nothing more than her hired assistant, Alonso defied it. He raised his right hand from beside him and set it upon her shoulder. He placed his hand against her back.

Like a whiplash, Cruella’s arm broke from her grip against the blanket and cast his hand away. She was sitting up right again, the light from her eyes seething with sparks of hatred like the dim embers from the chamber fire. She was staring at Alonso. Alonso’s hands went to the ground, slowly inching away from the bed. He fumbled, catching the tie of his robe under his foot as he attempted to stand. Fixing it upon the instant, Alonso righted himself and stood at attention; resuming his silent, watchman demeanor, gluing his gaze to the carpet beneath his feet. 

Cruella DeVil remained speechless. In spite of keeping his eyes on the floor he could feel her eyes still laying on him. He could see the edge of the bed in his periphery. She had set her feet down. He heard the sound of the zipper of her gown being opened, and when she stood, Alonso let his eyes look across the room, keeping her in the corners of his eyes, keeping his expression as stoic and unmoved as she desired. She slid one side of the gown off of her shoulders. As she crossed the room, the gown opened down to her waist and pulling the sleeves off, she turned the corner and retreated to her water closet. 

Alonso knew his next action. He had to leave. Without bidding goodnight, he hastened to the entrance of her chamber but not before seeing the broken pieces of paper scattered across her parlor floor. 

Still hearing the noises of her actions in the other room, Alonso walked back into the chamber, picking up the pieces with his fingers and collected them in his palm. He pocketed them in his robe. Just as he could hear the sound of the light switch being shut, and her inevitable reentry, Alonso left the chamber; holding his breath until the moment he reached his own door.

He had to have been dreaming.


	16. Poison

Alonso had enjoyed little less than four hours of sleep before he had been startled awake again. This time it was not a gentle rap on his door or the usual chime of his alarm clock. It was altogether highly unusual, and in his recollection of the day to follow, should have been the first signal to his eventual feeling of dread when bringing the day forward in his memory.

Is there anything I could have done differently?

Alonso began to stir, hearing a woman’s voice from outside of his bedroom door.

“Alonso!” Cruella DeVil was calling. “Get up!”

Bolting upright at once, he flung his blanket into the air and in the next moment had his hand on the lock of his door. He pulled open the door, remembering in the instant when the breeze of the moving door blew across his legs that he stood with nothing on his frame save for his long nightshirt. Before he could fathom his own mortification, Alonso looked at Cruella DeVil.

Leaning against the frame of his door, Cruella’s hand which had struck the door with her fist now retreated to cover her eyes. Her hair, usually meticulous in its’ styling was disheveled across her forehead and more unruly than ever. Her nightgown was tied loosely across her bosom, her skin showing through the laces shocking Alonso by the absence of a corset. The wide purple and white ribbon which closed the feathered robe was untied and hanging like two banners in front of her waist. Keeping her naked hand over her eyes, Cruella turned back towards the hallway.

“If you don’t bring me the strongest coffee in the world in less than twenty minutes you’re fired.” Cruella DeVil declared. Her voice was weak despite the command. Alonso watched her uncover her face. He could see the spoils of the night before mock her polished features by dark crevices under each of her eyes, and her usually pale complexion tinged with a shade of green Alonso recognized as a companion to nausea. Alonso, despite the immediacy of the order she had given him, stood stark mute in his doorway. 

Despite his outward composure, Alonso wanted nothing more than to smile in amusement. He never thought he would live to see such a morning. Knowing the level of control Cruella DeVil had maintained over every aspect of her daily life, it was a comfort to Alonso that even a woman as formidable as she was not exempt from the slings and arrows of outrageous drinking.

“Yes, m’am!” Alonso replied, snapping back into the reality of his position. He turned back into his room for his robe which he had slung carelessly on the back of his headboard the night before. As hastily as he had ever dressed before, he slid the robe up his arms. Once tied, he turned in all directions searching for his sleeping trousers. Alonso finally searched his drawer. He dressed himself and without pause, closed his chamber door. When Alonso stepped out into the hallway he could see Cruella DeVil leaning her weight on her hands outside of her bedroom door. She was groaning audibly, no doubt feeling all of the effects of her midnight fete. Even ill, Alonso thought despite her state, Cruella DeVil’s posture seemed directly from an editorial shoot. Even the nightgown she wore in a careless fashion was more couture than anything he had ever known before. Looking at Cruella DeVil’s robe, Alonso couldn’t help but remember the lilac colored, floral robe with pink feathers his own mother had fashioned in his childhood. How stylish he had thought that was, Alonso recalled. As soon as a shred of pity for his mother’s humble adornments crossed his mind, he would chastise himself. Alonso knew the affection he had for his mother’s clothes were tenfold of what Cruella DeVil had ever felt for a single garment; as far as he had known of her. There was nothing which she deemed worthy of preserving because of sentimental value in Cruella DeVil’s collections. 

Alonso was preparing to pass her when he heard another unusual sound. He saw Cruella lurch forward from her anchored stance against her door forcing it open. He saw her stumble on the hem of her robe. Alonso’s heart couldn’t stop from swelling with sympathy. Alonso heard the first warning sound of an impending sickness. This would not end prettily. 

Forgetting his obligation to go to the kitchen, Alonso followed closely behind her as she rushed towards her water closet. When he reached the entrance to her bedchamber, Alonso saw her hand close over her mouth. Disappearing from his view to the privacy of her master bath, Alonso waited for the sound of the inevitable. 

After a few moments, it was over. Alonso couldn’t fathom leaving her alone. Even when unsolicited. 

When Cruella DeVil returned, Alonso could see that color had returned to her cheeks. And with that, her usual temper:

“Do I have to ask you to get out?” Cruella scolded, placing her hand against her throat. Alonso could feel himself the burn which must have scoured her throat from the bile. 

“I’m so sorry, Miss DeVil. I juu….just wanted-

“What?” Cruella replied, her tone dripping with venom.

“I ww..wanted to make sure you were alright. Are you fe..feeling any better?” Alonso could feel his face begin to redden. 

For a moment, Cruella DeVil said nothing. She had folded her arms across her breasts. Anyone would think from the look on her face that Alonso had just uttered the most unforgiveable insult known to man. Her eyes expanded, and brimming with indignation Cruella DeVil sounded a scowl of contempt. Alonso lowered his eyes. Again, he prepared his ears for the worst. 

“I’m fine,” Cruella replied hastily. “Why would you ask me such a stupid question?” Her reply was spoken as one who had received a sudden shock. “What does it matter to you? I gave you an order I expect you to obey it when I tell you.” 

Alonso looked up. He could hardly believe she could be so upset from his inquiry. Is genuine concern as foreign to Cruella DeVil as all that? He thought.

“Yes, m’am” Alonso replied coldly. He turned his back on her and made his way to the door. 

At times, Alonso pondered, it was worth it to love her, other times an absolute terror.

When he returned with the dark, steaming pot of the finest Colombian beans he could procure from Roland, Alonso took a moment to assemble the breakfast tray to her usual specifications. In addition to her pastries which against his better judgment he decided to include, Alonso had folded open the daily paper for her perusal. Just as he reached over to open her chamber door, Alonso’s eyes scanned the front page of the Daily Mail:

“Fifteen Dalmatian Puppies Stolen- Thieves Flee the Scene.-Mr. and Mrs. Roger Dearly of Kensington reported their five week old litter of fifteen Dalmatian puppies was stolen shortly after 7:20pm yesterday evening. The thieves, which their housekeeper described as two men, rang the front door and forced entry-

Alonso felt his heart surge to his throat. Anita had married a Roger Dearly, Alonso recalled. He had not heard anything of Anita Campbell-Green since the day Cruella DeVil had seen the notice of their marriage. He remembered the photo of Anita’s beloved Dalmatian, Perdita. Could they really be her dogs? Was this the same Roger Dearly that had married her? 

Insecure to let his thoughts wander any further, Alonso opened the door and pulled the breakfast cart into the room. Alonso took another moment to refine the layout of the coffee and silverware on the tray before lifting it in his hands. When he turned around, Alonso very nearly did a double take where he stood. 

In the time it had taken to prepare breakfast, Cruella DeVil had recovered herself to her usual standards of perfection. She looked as if no such thing as a hangover had ever befallen her. Cruella DeVil was seated upright in her bed. Curlers were strategically placed on portions of her hair to manipulate the strands to her desired coif. The fit of her robe was altered; cinched tightly across her waist with black lacing and finished with the closure of a large, neatly tied bow which lay perfectly at the center of her breasts. When he looked at Cruella’s face, he observed a thin layer of what resembled white paint beneath each of her eyes. When he stepped closer, the familiar smell of her cigarettes invaded his nostrils. He set the tray onto the bed. Alonso couldn’t help but watch in anticipation of her seeing the headline. But to his dismay, Cruella DeVil set aside the paper. 

“Now go away, I will be late to the office so bring me my phone. I will telephone Frederick myself not to set any meetings until after twelve.” Cruella DeVil commanded.   
She couldn’t be serious. Alonso had witnessed her state not an hour earlier. In a similar mode, Alonso could barely see himself leaving his bed let alone going to oversee the operation of a multimillion pound corporation. Still reeling, he crossed the bedroom to the desk beside the door. He unhooked the phone cord from the wall and replaced it into the line beside Cruella’s bed. He placed the bright white phone on the bed next to Cruella’s lap. 

Then again, Alonso had to remind himself, Cruella DeVil was no ordinary woman.


	17. Suspicions

It was everywhere. Everywhere Alonso looked there was the name “Anita Dearly” in bold letters on the subtitle of every newspaper in town. He hadn’t even been given the chance to read the entirety of one article. He had felt a heaviness settle in his chest. Alonso had never been close to Anita. She was a colleague, granted one with significantly more merit than him, but no closer to their employer than he was. With only one difference, Alonso thought. Anita didn’t love Cruella DeVil; that much was certain. But he did. 

Alonso reached the stop light near the base of the Tower Bridge. Just outside the tube station were newsstands, the untied edges of the newspapers catching the breeze off of the river repeating the same word in a slow motion animation like a child’s flipbook: dognapped, dognapped, dognapped.

Alonso looked over to his quiet passenger.

Cruella DeVil’s demeanor had regained her unshakeable calm. She drew a long inhale of her cigarette and exhaled so the smoke bounced off of the glass of her window. Her eyes looked towards the Tower of London, darting with the flight paths of two ravens circling the fortress. Her eyes stopped in their pattern when they rested on the newsstand which had caught Alonso’s attention. Turning her head to look out the window, Alonso observed her form seem to inch closer to the glass. Her movement caused the leopard skin wrap she had draped across her shoulders to fall; exposing the stark white shoulder of her suit which similar to the arc of the traitors gate, pointed upwards. Not able to see her face, Alonso observed that once she had seen enough, Cruella set her back against the seat and looked ahead. She was giggling inexplicably. 

It was half past two by the time Alonso had resumed his duties at the House of DeVil. Even there, in the noise and commotion of the fashion house, Anita’s name was still ringing in his ears. The designers had all seen the headlines. He had not seen the House of DeVil so abuzz with gossip since the morning Cruella DeVil had been attacked by the protestor. Only this time, the murmurs were questioning. In between his own tasks, Alonso could hear what the designers were whispering over the rendering tables:

“Did you hear Josephine say they haven’t received a sketch from her in over three weeks?”

“Do you think she was fired?”

“What do you mean she doesn’t work here anymore?”

“Frederick told me Ms. DeVil wanted to redo all of next year’s line!”

“And she was going to be the lead designer?”

“You’re joking-

Alonso passed the design floor; keeping his pace at a controlled level with a fresh pot of tea in both hands. He hated the tea set at the office; in an attempt to be stylish and modern the pot and creamers were tilted at an angle; making it perilous to travel at any speed with them without the liquids spilling out onto the carpets. Thankfully he had never had any catastrophic spills. That is, nothing that he couldn’t blot out with the toe of his shoe before going through the doors.

To his surprise, when Alonso returned to Cruella DeVil’s office, two police officers were standing across from her. 

“It’s simply dreadful, the whole ordeal.” Cruella DeVil said. Alonso could tell her concern was staged. Cruella’s voice was modulating in tones that were so thick with syrup Alonso was surprised to find no residue oozing from her lips. What reason had she to be so false over something so upsetting? Especially to one she had cared for so covertly. 

“But she had friends here, Miss DeVil, in other words. We are simply trying to find a suspect and whether anyone here would have any reason to take such action against Mrs. Dearly and her family.” 

Alonso made his way slowly to the base of the steps. His fingers were beginning to burn from the heat of the boiling hot teapot. 

“Oh, of course not!” Cruella DeVil exclaimed with indignation. “Sweet, simple Anita wouldn’t harm another living soul. She’s so caring and lovely-Loving.” Cruella DeVil corrected herself. Alonso couldn’t help the short intake of breath at the surprise. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you, have I?” Cruella DeVil stood up from her chair, allowing her wrap to slide off of her shoulders and fall back against the pointed arms of her throne. Setting down her cigarette, she approached the two police officers smiling broadly. “You will notify me as soon as you find anything of them? Poor Anita must be heartsick.” Cruella offered her right hand. At first unsure of what she wanted, the younger officer of the two men offered his own. With hesitation, he shook it. Alonso could see his eyes looking at her talon-like fingers, to everyone else, her black gloved hands with pointed nails would set anyone on edge on first acquaintance. 

“Well we hope we haven’t troubled you, Miss DeVil” The young officer said, removing his hat and stepping back, allowing his senior to make the final case. 

“You let us know if anyone comes forwards with any suspicions.” He said resolutely. 

Alonso stepped to the side, allowing the two officers to exit before he approached the desk. 

As he set down the newly brewed tea on her table, Cruella DeVil stepped to the top of the stairs; watching with eager eyes as the two officers left the room. Alonso set down the teapot on the tray. He stepped over to the side of the room, resuming his stance as a silent observer. 

Alonso had watched Cruella DeVil return to her desk. She perpetually adjusted the leopard shawl over her shoulders. Alonso had admired the wrap. It was among the finer pieces in her collection. It was only a matter of time, Alonso had realized, before he had come to see the beauty in acquiring such rarities. The sheen of the fur, set against the solid blocks of black and white color in her suit; with nothing save for the red accent of her lips was overall so deliberate in its treatment Alonso felt he was at every moment observing a piece of moving art. No other fur could have suited the ensemble so perfectly. Perhaps zebra, Alonso caught himself thinking. No, he retracted, far too busy of a print. Alonso had come to enjoy his own opinions of Cruella DeVil’s ensembles. Today, for example, she seemed one accessory overboard. If it had been up to him, Alonso would have rejected the bracelet on her right hand; if only since it’s’ size and decoration clashed with the already scalloped sleeves of her suit. Pieces of the bracelets decoration reminded Alonso of the boxes filled with metal shrapnel and used bullet casings he had grown used to seeing amongst Gabriel’s collections over at Highgate Square.

But Alonso had forgotten. That bracelet was the only single piece Alonso had finally realized had harbored a sentimental value. Days before, she had ordered him to dig through every shoebox, drawer, and container or wherever else it might have been hiding to recover it. It took two hours before Alonso had remembered where it was. A night over a month before, Cruella DeVil had returned to her boudoir seething with an anger she refused to disclose and hurled the elaborate bracelet from her wrist as she was seated on her bed. It had landed on the floor and slid beneath her armoire. 

She had not removed it from her right wrist ever since. Alonso was at a loss. There were still many details of her life which he had been kept uneducated about.

Just as Alonso felt the beginnings of a daydream tease at his thoughts, he heard a sound from Cruella DeVil’s desk. 

Alonso had heard something hit the ground. When he looked over, the decorative bone holder for her cigarette had been cast against the floor; breaking into pieces. Cruella DeVil had stood up from her seat. Turning from him, she looked out the window. Alonso had only noticed for himself that night had fallen. Still looking out at turning skies, Alonso was interrupted:

“Go away.” Cruella said firmly; once her eyes had rested on his face. 

Alonso, still stunned at the suddenness of her request, fumbled at first in whether anything needed to be brought out with him. He approached the desk; than deciding against   
following his own intuition versus her command, Alonso made his way down the stairs. He folded his hands in front of him. When he reached the door, he turned back just before the doors closed. Cruella DeVil was in front of her desk; dialing hurriedly an unknown number into the keypad of her cellular phone.


	18. Purgatory

There was an eerie, catatonic feeling which came over Alonso when The House of DeVil’s employees were leaving that night. Having gone from the rush of the hurried voices spreading the day’s news to each other between errands ears Alonso found the silence unnerving. He had burned through the day riding the tension of knowing at any moment, something new regarding the situation might catch in his ears. He sat on a chair outside of Cruella DeVil’s office. It hadn’t been unlike any other evening; save that often at this time he would be set to the task of cleaning Cruella’s desk of anything she discarded. Or sent to the conference rooms to reorganize the chairs, or pick up remnants of samples which may have been rejected. 

Overcome with boredom, Alonso asked himself what it was all for.

A job. He answered his thoughts dutifully, to save up his earnings? But for what? Alonso asked himself. A man keeps a job to fuel his ambitions, he allowed his thoughts to continue, to do whatever it was he wished to do. Everything he had ever been told was the purpose of a man’s life seemed irrelevant in his present occupation. Before, he had thought it proper to work hard to save his earnings for a home, a rare car perhaps, or travel. He had always wanted to travel, but never had an attainable destination, or someone to travel with. 

Of course, there was someone he would enjoy to travel with, but the very idea made Alonso laugh, and exhausted with the notion of luggage proportions he would be forced to contend with. 

He didn’t need to save his money to better his living conditions. Even the single bedroom at the DeVil mansion was better than anything he had ever known or could afford even after a lifetime of frugality. And it was a mansion after all, even if nothing within the four walls could ever truly be his to claim. And when it came to following his father’s craving for exotic automobiles, nothing had been more exciting to Alonso than to drive a beautifully restored 1935 Roll’s on a daily basis. Whomever had been put to work in the restoration had been a top mechanic; the precision of his welding in the exhaust manifold nearly making Alonso’s mouth water when he first observed it. It was a craft he appreciated, but never exceeded in it well enough to make a career of it as his father had. Alonso knew enough to be sure to keep it running in proper order and enough knowledge to just when it might require services beyond his own skills. 

Everything he took joy in in his life, it occurred to Alonso, still had to do with her.

A melancholy struck Alonso when the realization came over him; he would never be closer to her under any circumstances than to be her hired man. Recovering his hope from the stark reality, Alonso had remembered only too well the few moments which she showed his importance to her. They couldn’t be denied. Something he had done retained Cruella DeVil’s loyalty and affection; even if her display of affection meant raising her voice to issue a command without including an insult. 

And Alonso’s pride had been fulfilled when he thought how much chaos and annoyance would befall Cruella’s life in his absence. Of course, Alonso acknowledged, she could hire someone else. But so much of Alonso’s tasks which Cruella expected now had been conceived in his personal ambitions to please her. To ask someone else to fulfill them would seem ridiculous; the job would be leaps and bounds beyond what anyone else would endure. To Alonso, they were necessities which any good husband might undertake in caring for his wife; albeit a demanding, impetuous and most times arrogant specimen of womanhood. 

For the last two years, his life had been nothing but living with Cruella DeVil. In truth, Alonso had never been happier; though by all outward appearances one would think he were a slave subject to a tyrannical mistress. Or perhaps, Alonso felt an embarrassment to admit, having been directionless for the majority of his life it was appropriate for him to find security at the hands of a dominant woman. He had never before met a woman he had been so eager to please. Alonso would exert himself beyond his own capacity everyday if it only meant he could see her smile with genuine approval. Her smile was beautiful, when she wasn’t scowling over an annoyance, or keeping her expression stoic to demonstrate her power over other people. And when she spoke without malice, Alonso couldn’t help but feel an unspeakably erotic thrill when certain words were uttered in her low, tremulous voice. No other woman had ever awakened him in this way. 

Alonso was not a virgin. He had, much to his surprise, been acknowledged as boyfriend to his neighbor’s daughter for a summer over having spent a community picnic together. Despite her enthusiastic chatter, Alonso was hopeless talking with her; his stammer having been worse in his youth. Pretty girls were never easy to talk to let alone working against an impediment. In looking back, Alonso could see that he had been nothing more than a rehearsal puppet in her estimation. He could still see the rusted shovels and rakes in that rickety garden shed. He had been so awkward; hands fumbling with how and where to touch her. Even at seventeen, he let himself follow her ever word and movement blindly, unquestioning how and even what he was doing. He had been given the talk by his mother regarding the so called ‘birds and the bees’ but their pitiful metaphor did nothing to help him when he really needed it. Even now at his age, with such minimal experience with the fairer sex Alonso still felt the insecurity of his youth follow him into manhood. And since meeting the infamous Cruella DeVil, he had never been more compelled to preserve himself from other women even if only for the slightest of chances with the woman he really loved. Those energies which can drive a man to madness Alonso had felt proud to admit he had overcome by diligence in his work and an unwavering sense of hope. 

But he couldn’t lie to himself. Alonso still had mornings when he awoke nervous and trembling; sweat running down his cheeks and making spots on his pillowcase. The dreams were never lengthy. Only glimpses and flashes of the joy he had long kept himself from imagining. He was, after all, nothing but a man in love. On those days, it was torture to look at her; even after the visions had been sated from his climax. There were times he felt certain her penetrating green eyes could look behind his and see his fantastic visions flash across his gaze. He feared that more than anything else. Somehow, the same words and actions which would bring him the greatest relief and ecstasy were one and the same as those that would bring him to the very apex of shame and terror. And who would dare think such thoughts of Cruella DeVil, he shuddered to confess. But he felt doubly ashamed, for why wouldn’t someone. She was a woman, just as he was a man, and love in its’ strange and unexplainable shape could make fools and dreamers of even the bitterest of souls. 

Coming away from his own fears, Alonso folded his arms across his chest. He set his shoulders against the back of the chair; sinking into it submissive to the prolonged waiting he had been forced to endure. The lights which kept the design floor brightly illuminated had been switched to low; the last employee was making their way to the elevators. Even with the knowledge that Cruella was seated in her office behind him, Alonso felt lonely. He had always felt at his most isolated when drawing out the void in his heart. 

Suddenly, the doors split open. As quickly as he could, Alonso rose from the chair, brushing down his coat and standing at attention.

Cruella DeVil passed him, walking on with a purposeful stride as she replaced the cigarette in her holder. She hadn’t said a word. Alonso caught a glimpse of her face in the reflection of a passing mirror. Her gaze was full of intent only made more ominous by the shadows cast in the grey light. He followed her without a word or order to do so. They stepped into the elevator. 

Alonso could feel her anger brimming in her body from within the confined space. She stared at her own reflection in the painted door; the smoke trail from her cigarette making a perpendicular reflection across the black stripes. Cruella DeVil gazed up at the descending numbers. She hadn’t blinked. When they reached the lobby, Cruella DeVil threw the other side of the leopard fur wrap across her neck so it draped across her chest. The fringe hit Alonso in the face as he followed behind her. Without complaint they reached the sidewalk of Mincing Lane. Thick snow which had fallen overnight had been shoveled away yet even still the streets looked icy. Alonso hated to watch her stride so intensely on such uncertain pavement; especially in the usually impractical heels Cruella DeVil insisted on being buckled or zipped into every morning. The office valet stood at the ready beside the car. Cruella DeVil took the keys from him without word or acknowledgement. Even when she had seated herself behind the wheel and firmly closed her door she hadn’t uttered a word. Hearing the pointed heel of her metal stiletto against the gas pedal, Alonso felt the car jerk into gear and he held firmly onto the door handle.

Alonso knew now more than any other time, something of great importance was coveting Cruella DeVil’s attention. When even her usual groans of disapproval didn’t punctuate her every action, Alonso knew her mind lay on more important things than belittlement of her staff.

She had ignored the radio. The usual station, a vintage station on the BBC which broadcast nothing but old fashioned jazz and standards had surprised Alonso to be of her taste. It wasn’t until he found a pile of dusty worn vinyl records in her father’s library that the origin had made sense to him. Nothing was heard in Alonso’s ears now save for the rumbling of the engine. He folded his hands onto his lap; watching the flicker of holiday lights make multi colored spots across the windshield. Christmas was one of his favorite holidays. He always loved the excitement of waking up early; often leaping onto his mother’s bed and calling out tidings in his broken English that in later years they shortened the holiday to “Chris-Chris”; his adrenaline rendering his tongue almost useless.

Alonso had known of a few existing letters from Gen. Maurice DeVille which acknowledged the holiday. Not once had he ever come across words which told of his return for the season, or a gesture more meaningful than a pricier gift or token. Knowing Cruella DeVil’s unwavering conceit, Alonso could only dream of what exotic, fanciful presents could be seen at the DeVil mansion. Perhaps they too were among the fineries which adorned the walls and glass displays at the House of DeVil. But the thought of a Cruella DeVil in her girlhood, delighted and bursting into her nanny’s room on Christmas morning made Alonso smile despite the grown woman’s cold demeanor and lack of spontaneity.

The festive lights which hung across the streets had disappeared once the car had left the downtown boroughs. Only tall Victorian street lights lit the road which concealed the driveway to her house. Just as the atmosphere of delight from his memories had comforted him, Alonso shifted his eyes to look back at Cruella DeVil beside him. Somehow he hoped that even his own enjoyment of the displays of the season would find a way to comfort her from her anxiety. But from her hurried action of replacing yet another exhausted cigarette, Cruella DeVil had clearly taken no notice.

Cruella DeVil pulled the car close to the bottom of the stone steps. She threw the car abruptly into park; the groan of pain from the transmission causing Alonso to wince for the sake of the car. As he exited the car and crossed in front of the hood; the headlights had switched off. No light save for the two on either side of her door lit the walk. When he opened the door to allow Cruella’s escorted exit; she broke the silence. 

“Take it to the garage and top everything off; do what you must, I am going back out.” She said, pushing the cigarette holder into her purse which today, was a purse fashioned from the hide of a skunk. 

Alonso took the keys from her hands. He reopened the door and before sitting down in the driver’s seat, kept his eyes on her until she was safe inside the house. His nerves were beginning to fray. What could she want the car for so late? And with the threat of even more snow the next morning from his remembrance of the weather report? 

Alonso remembered his duty. He settled his back into the seat and turned the ignition; the only comfort for him found in the lingering warmth from her body on the leather cradling his shoulders.


	19. Maelstrom

The car had little service needed to restore it to peak performing conditions. He had left it just where she had parked it, only now facing the exit to make her departure more efficient. Alonso hurried back into the house; feeling the chill of the cold night ahead when a gust of wind pushed him towards the door. Alonso rubbed his hands together in front of his mouth; blowing warm air into them as he made his way to Cruella’s chamber. 

Ready to announce the suitability of the car, Alonso opened the doors to Cruella’s chamber. Her black and white suit was strewn in pieces across her chaise. On the armchair across from the chaise was her oversize red and black mink coat. Alonso had remembered it from weeks before when Cruella had ordered it to be brought out of her storage. It had to have weighed ten pounds. Also to his surprise was the book he had discovered the deed to the Suffolk estate. The deed itself was pulled out of the book and unfolded open on the glass table. When he looked at Cruella DeVil, she was standing before her mirror clad in a short red sweater dress which despite its intention of being a winter garment, had an open circular cutout across her back. She was pulling up the top of a tall, red boot up her leg, inches from exposure Alonso had never expected. The boots were held up by a garter belt which only when she pushed up the dress, Alonso could see was built from black and white lace. She had been so focused on the task of securing her boot that she did not see Alonso standing there until she looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror.

“There you are, is the car ready?” Cruella ordered. When she turned around, Alonso could see black and white jewelry hidden between the folds of her collar. In all the ensembles he had seen, no other had been so casual to his observation. 

“Yes, ma’am” He replied. 

“So tell me, Alonso, what do you know about the expedition in Sitagroi? Or the New Year’s Eve party when my father gave me Napoleon brandy? Or the summer I crashed my red Panther De Ville? And oh, do tell me what you know about Isabelle.” 

“Wh…what do you-

“Don’t lie to me. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. If you hadn’t proven yourself loyal to me I would be throwing you out this very instant. What made you think you had the right to violate my private collection in such a way. What could have possessed you?! 

Alonso felt all the breath leave him. Awash in terror, he fell to his knees. He felt tears start at his eyes despite his resolution to keep his desperation from showing in the face of her artillery. 

“I shouldn’t expect an explanation from you; you can’t even talk when you aren’t compromised!” Cruella said coldly, stepping past him and pushing at his shoulder.   
Alonso could barely breathe. He turned around and crawled towards her briefly until he saw her red shoes reenter his periphery. 

“I…I can explain.” Alonso said as quickly as he could. “I www…wanted to know.”

“What?” Cruella replied. “There is nothing you would have needed there. I tell you what you need to know. You should never have had to go looking for it.” 

“Lenora!” Alonso pleaded. Before he could feel the fear of uttering her name before her, Cruella DeVil’s right hand made him feel nothing but the sting of her slap across his face. 

“Don’t you dare call me by that name!” Cruella screamed. “You don’t know me well enough to deserve speaking it.” 

“But I want-I want to know you. I co…couldn’t help it.” Alonso continued; feeling his heart pounding with every syllable he forced from his tongue. “I am sss…so deeply sorry, I never…..never in my life want anything but to mmmm….make you happy!” Alonso let his hands drop to his side. With his last ounce of courage he looked up at Cruella DeVil’s face. Her eyes were searching his; filled with disdain that made Alonso all at once see the depths of her rage. Just as quickly as her rage had built, Cruella DeVil suddenly broke into a smile. She began to chuckle; as if a revelation had been made to her which in the next moment, Alonso knew it had. He had betrayed himself after all.

Cruella DeVil placed both black gloved hands on Alonso’s face. Leaning down to the level of his eyes, she whispered:

“You poor little fool, well, if that’s how you feel I’ll keep you after all.” She stroked his face than raising the same hand, patted his head. Cruella DeVil dropped her hands onto his shoulders. When Cruella stepped forward, she pressed his head against her abdomen, mocking the embrace Alonso had always dreamt of. Cruella DeVil set her hand against the back of his neck. She clutched his hair, forcing his face upwards to look into his eyes. 

“Good dog.” 

Cruella DeVil shoved Alonso to the floor. Still shaking with silent laughter, she crossed to the chaise and lifted her red mink coat.

“Don’t wait up, darling, I’ll be back in the morning. I expect everything to be as I left it.” 

Alonso felt his confidence shatter; what little was left. Darling, she had uttered it with such disgust; Alonso could feel his heart begin to ache. He had never known such pain in his life. 

“Come now, you aren’t the only one whose been betrayed.”

Alonso looked up at Cruella. She had put the coat on her shoulders and was standing in her door staring at him pityingly. Whether knowingly or not, she was closing the coat tightly across her chest as though it were a protective armor. 

“This time, it won’t be my heart that’s left in pieces. I’ll be wearing her heart on my sleeve.” 

Suddenly delighted with what she had confessed, Cruella DeVil set her back against the frame of the door, a bray not unlike the howl of a jungle cat erupted from her lips and broke into a spell of violent, piercing laughter. Before the laughter could cease Cruella DeVil strode forward from the door.

Alonso could still hear the fading bellows of it until she reached the front door. When he heard the door slam behind him and the laughter cease, Alonso shielded his face within his hands. He wanted to scream, cry bitter tears, tear his heart from his chest and force it to listen to his reason and stop caring. Between the flashes of anger, he could still hear the voice of his concern. Where was she going? What did she mean? But why should he care. She knows now. Everything he had ever feared had come true.

But he was still there; kneeling as it were on the carpet in her bed chamber, breathing the air, feeling his own heartbeat. The world had not, as he had feared, come to an end. 

She had pitied him. 

Alonso wanted her forgiveness now more than ever. 

Feeling his tears still wetting his cheeks, Alonso reached into his pocket searching for his handkerchief.

Instead, feeling something unfamiliar on his fingertips, Alonso pulled out the pieces of paper he had recovered from her chamber floor the night before. He had, on an impulse he could not account for, transferred them from his robe to his suit pocket earlier that morning.

With nothing else to occupy him while he recovered, he began to reassemble them on the floor with his fingers. With nothing but last names and various numbers Alonso couldn’t decipher which had gone with what name. 

Grahams, 9, Tomkins,10, 8, 8,Wilkinson, 12, Gorton, Dearly, 15-

Fifteen.

Dearly------Fifteen. 

Dognapped, dognapped, dognapped; Alonso recalled the flapping pile of newspapers by the Tower.

“Fifteen Dalmatian puppies reported stolen-

“Two men forced entry-

“If we made this coat, it would be as if I were wearing your dog!”

Alonso felt the last of his innocence disintegrate within him.


	20. Vendetta

It couldn’t be true. Alonso simply couldn’t fathom it.

Why would she steal them? He asked himself first. But he caught his thoughts before they spiraled into chaos. It didn’t matter how she had gotten them that should have been foremost on his mind, but to what purpose they had first been acquired. She couldn’t seriously wish to use dogs for a fur coat. It was disgusting to him on first consideration.  
But their spots truly were like no other. Before Alonso could even let his heart tease his thoughts towards forgiveness he chastised them. What kind of monstrous woman could willingly murder innocent animals for the sake of fashion?

Cruella DeVil.

Of course she was capable. She had brutally killed a suffering dove as a girl for its feathers. And who knows what other killings she had performed by her own hands during her father’s hunting parties.

But in that moment Alonso couldn’t hate her. He simply couldn’t. Alonso understood how revolutionary those spots had been flashed before Cruella DeVil’s eyes. Having seen every fabric, print, sample and swatch he understood why she had stopped in her tracks that morning in front of Anita Campbell-Green’s desk. Having seen so many stripes, specks, blots, leopard prints and patterns so symmetrical in their form on the skins that the haphazard, careless placement of spots on the white skin of a Dalmatian had broken all preconceived ideas of spots Cruella DeVil had known. No, he realized, they simply couldn’t be replicated on linen, or cotton, or even silk. Fur, and the fur from the very dogs themselves, was the only medium that would retain the startling, original pattern.

Alonso found the strength to stand. He looked at the open door where Cruella had departed moments before. He felt an overwhelming helplessness overcome him. For all he knew, the poor creatures could be dead already. Alonso mourned despite his heart already been burdened with the heartbreak he had faced from Cruella DeVil herself.

Yet he had never mourned for the hundreds of minks, foxes, rabbits, chinchillas Cruella DeVil had ordered by the month, or even the white tiger she had been so delighted to receive just weeks before. Alonso had knowingly detached himself from recalling their once lively, feral majesty. Alonso realized nothing but being forced to live in this industry for two years, day in and day out, could make a man truly become desensitized to the casual brutality. And even then, Alonso couldn’t help but recall the radiant, at times girlish smile of Cruella whenever she acquired a new and rare fur. She was so exquisitely beautiful when she was happy. Only looking now, Alonso wished she could be so pleased from an altogether different source. From what women he had known in his life, a gift deserving of such a smile was a new piece of jewelry, or a bouquet of flowers, or whatever other token of affection lovers exchange during their courtship.

When did it happen? Alonso asked. When did the moment of happiness register in Lenora DeVille’s mind to affix itself permanently to such an irregular token; and one which in its very creature was devoid of all human tenderness and sympathy? When did her heart find a mistakenly unholy object to devote the focus of her worship?

It couldn’t be irreversible. Alonso at once began to lift pieces of Cruella DeVil’s wardrobe from the floor. He needed to focus on anything to distract him from his anxiety. He opened the suit jacket between his hands, lifting it and jerking it quickly down through the air to remove any creases or improper folds. It was a long jacket with side closures closed with hooks and accented with a white waving collar which spread across the bodice. He lifted the matching skirt, brushing it down with his hands as he observed the light bounce off of the folds from the top of the waistband. Cruella DeVil’s clothing, despite its often stark and aggressive presence when worn, was so beautiful and feminine despite the dark colors. He attributed this to the impeccable fit. She had always ensured even in the darkest, most modest item of clothing that that it yield to every curve of her short, pear shaped frame. Alonso walked over to the left side of her double closets; the left being reserved strictly for her business wear. Alonso hung the suit neatly on the first available hanger. When he turned around, Alonso let his eyes rove over the expanse of the empty room around him. In the pale light, the blue walls resembled storm clouds. He needed no great stretch of the imagination to see the white and blue lines swirling together like the towering cumulous clouds he had known to see during the summer months. What he wouldn’t give to feel the happiness of summer at that moment. Alonso heart the chime of the clock in the front foyer. He counted the tolls. It was nine in the evening.

When he completed the task of setting Cruella DeVil’s chamber to right, Alonso felt an impulse he had never before acknowledged as his own. He felt the building anxiety pull him, as though with a magnetic force, to the bar beside her fireplace. Alonso craved for the sting of a strong liquor to restore his broken senses. He had never before felt more deserving of ‘a strong one’ as his former employer used to say. Alonso, even though he knew himself to be alone, still checked the doors of Cruella DeVil’s chamber to ensure there were no witnesses to his indulgence. Alonso opened the doors to the bar and let his eyes scan the assortment before him. Remembering the warmth which follows the bite of brandy, Alonso reached for the carafe. But which glass? The valet in him asked. Cruella DeVil was not in possession of a proper snifter. Alonso instead poured an ounce for himself. Alonso heaved a sigh; the most he could muster as a toast to his recovering strength. He downed the shot. His breath caught in his throat when he felt the burn. Once it reached his stomach, the delayed warmth rose up into his throat more comforting than anything else within his reach. Alonso restored the carafe to its proper place. Cruella DeVil would return in the morning, he reminded himself. Immediately he began to concoct surprises he could devise to aid in his apology. Alonso still felt the bitter pang of remorse for what he had done. He had never thought of the perusal of her father’s letters as such a personal violation. Cruella DeVil had taken it just as harshly as he might have feared, but her choice of words had been so genuine in shock Alonso knew he had come the closest he had ever known to hurting her. Alonso could hardly believe she could ever have been in a position to be hurt.

Again, like the moment of returning to consciousness, Alonso realized he has not been brutally sacked as he had so often feared.

Cruella DeVil accepted what he had done, even pitied him in her own sarcastic, and mocking tone. But this is what he expected when it came to Cruella. There was no such thing as a genuine compliment. A woman like Cruella could never leave someone certain of her true opinions of them; whether you were truly someone of importance or not. Alonso assumed it was part of the walls she had encased herself in; always keeping people at bay for reasons Alonso was beginning slowly but surely to understand.

Isabelle.

Alonso suddenly heard the name flash into his memory. Who was she? How could he have known all about this woman when the name had only been uttered to him for the first time that very evening?

Clearly, at least to her vague mention, she had been someone hidden deep within the catacombs of Cruella DeVil’s memories.

Alonso searched his own memories of her father’s letters. There was simply nothing. Nothing in writing.

Even so, shortly after the mention of her name, Alonso had heard Cruella DeVil herself refer to her own isolated, impenetrable heart.

Alonso could deduce nothing but that similar to the deeply rooted disappointment she had borne with Anita Campbell-Green’s loss, Cruella DeVil had suffered another at the hands of this elusive Isabelle.

What could have happened to have kept no mention of her until that night? Why did the extraordinary circumstances of the evening he was enduring bring that name and memory forward in Cruella DeVil’s mind?

Twice over the two nights she had spoken of heartbreak, of the aftermath as well. Why else, Alonso realized, would she suddenly choose to tell Alonso the curious case of attempted poison by ink? Perhaps in the past, he concluded, Lenora DeVille had been self-destructive in the wake of those who had left her bereft or unhappy. But than what could possibly have turned her thoughts? Alonso realized with a chill. When did she realize rather than putting herself in the center of the bull’s eye for blame and scorn to instead put those that had rejected her and fire the arrows with her own hands? When did her sympathy shrivel into malice? When were the barriers built? And why of all the multitudes of men and women which crossed Cruella DeVil’s path did these two persons, Isabelle and Anita, become mentioned within almost the same breath as words of grief and spite?

There was a relief to Alonso in his wanderings. He had acquired the knowledge of what it truly was that had fueled Cruella DeVil’s ceaseless vendetta against Anita Campbell-Green.

Alonso knew too much, perhaps, for his own comfort.

All at once his imagination ignited and took hold of his reason. He envisioned constables, flashes of bright gold and silver badges shoved with force towards his face to elicit a response from his tongue. Every image and sound bombarded him; handcuffs, paddy wagons, and the sound of the unfeeling slam of cold and imposing prison bars.  
Just as swiftly as the fear had engulfed him, Alonso had sounded a laugh. That would be a bit excessive, he deduced for himself. Prison? For stealing fifteen dogs?

Unless.

No.

Ninety nine was the sum he had read. Had she truly stolen nearly a hundred dogs on the whim of a design fancy?

Alonso could not maintain his dignified composure expected as the sturdy and unmovable valet. He sat down, firmly and with no regard for the exclusivity of still being in Cruella DeVil’s boudoir, on the seat of her chaise. He propped up his head onto his hands, his elbows digging into his legs to support the heaviness of his thoughts. Alonso was determined to do nothing until he reached a resolution, a reason, for the overwhelming impulse to judge Cruella DeVil for what she had done despite his innate stance of loyalty.

No, Alonso recalled, letting his memories come forward by a trigger in his mind. No, she had not stolen them all. He could hear her voice (for it was yesterday and not as though it were) when Cruella DeVil had uttered these words before him:

“I have already given Jasper the advance to cover their cost”

Horace and Jasper Baddun

“Two men forced entry-

Alonso felt the acknowledgment of the evidence crush all foolish hope of doubt he had retained in the course of his duty to her. But even then, Alonso didn’t pretend that duty to Cruella DeVil wasn’t the only thing keeping his mind from listening to reason.

In that moment, Alonso felt certain he was the only man alive who could speak of the cerebral moment to moment agony of living in hell. For it was just this: perpetual doubt, resignation, fury, and indignation all at once; and all strong enough to either batter the voice of reason or swell the surges of pity and compassion within his heart, that demonstrated to him what true eternal suffering meant.

Alonso had felt tangible, physical pain at the thought of her inevitable punishment. She had to be punished. Justice was a virtue Alonso had been drilled into practicing and believing all of his life. There was no reason on Earth that should keep Anita Dearly from extracting her justice in the form of whatever punishment she chose to demonstrate against her scorned employer.

He knew it had to be done.

Leaning up from his hands and staring across the room to the reflection in the vanity mirror, Alonso realized that Cruella DeVil’s fate was resting in no one else’s hands but his own.

What he knew could condemn her; destroy her life and reputation beyond a damage that could be accurately measured across a lifetime.

Suddenly, clarity broke through the tempest of Alonso’s mind. His reason had at once been shuttered to silence and defeated by the instinct of his heart. There was one certainty Alonso could never be broken from; even on threat of pain, imprisonment, humiliation and ridicule.

Alonso knew that just as he could condemn her, Alonso could in the same absence of words; keep the love of his life from certain ruination and despair.

But before Alonso Marzilli could prevent such events with his own course of actions, the choice was taken away from him.


	21. Surrender

He forced his mind to remember. 

Alonso did not even have the chance to speak. 

The cacophonous night had begun with a sound a simple as the single blare of a siren horn. From the little view of the outside he could see from behind the layers of sheer curtains, Alonso was able to discern spots of flashing lights cast against the glass.   
In the same fashion as an automaton, Alonso rose from the chaise, feeling his courage beginning to flare inside of him. This, even though far from the presence of Cruella herself, was his chance to prove his loyalty to the only woman he felt certain he would love till the day his heart stopped beating.

The doorbell rang. Once. Twice. 

By the third chime, Alonso placed his hand on the door knob. He breathed the longest inhale his lungs could fit before he twisted the knob and opened the door. 

There, standing on the front steps, Alonso saw the end of the world as he had known it. Anita and Roger Dearly were standing arm in arm waiting; their hurried breathing forming clouds in front of their lips. Anita’s pretty blue eyes were stained with tears. Standing as rigid as a statue in front of them was a police officer. Alonso searched his mind for the first words to break the silence. He remembered a lesson from his mother; in the face of all rudeness and adversity, courtesy was always the simplest reply. 

“Good evening” Alonso managed to speak without stammer. 

“Is Miss DeVil at home?” The officer said sternly. It had been the very same officer who had been standing across from Cruella DeVil’s desk only hours before. 

“No, I’m s-sorry sir, Madam has left for the evening-

“Alonso there is no time to waste! Do you realize what she is doing? Anita Dearly broke her arm from Roger. It had been the first time Alonso had set eyes on the man who had   
won over Anita Campbell Green from the clutches of Madam DeVil’s tempting offer of notoriety. He was a calm, solid man of quiet resolution. Though he had yet to speak a word, Alonso could feel his indignation at the suffering of his wife acutely when Alonso looked him in the face. 

“Mrs. Dearly, please-The officer attempted to keep control.

“No, no you don’t realize what she’s going to do!” Anita’s voice began to rise with fever pitch. She pushed the shoulder of the officer to clear her path to Alonso. All at once, he was face to face with Anita.

“Where are they? Where is she hiding them?” Anita said firmly, the tone of her voice dropping to levels Alonso could barely recognize as being her own. Alonso stood motionless. The pain in her eyes grasped at his own conscience as if the guilt were on his shoulders alone. Alonso had to be silent. The apology was beginning to form on his lips but he couldn’t. Even at his own reticence to allow such a monstrous act of cruelty against such innocent creatures as Dalmatian puppies, Alonso knew his silence, and only his silence, could be the act of loyalty he could bestow. 

Without the satisfaction of a reply, Anita Dearly pushed Alonso against the door. The force of her strength shocked him; feeling the knob of the door handle crush against the base of his spine. From the force, the door had opened. Ignoring the sound of the calling officer Anita Dearly ran forward forcibly into the house. When Alonso turned around, she was standing in the foyer, twirling in her position as she gazed up to the top of the stairs. Before they could reached her, she ran without pause up the stairs. Alonso was frozen where he stood at the door. He realized that Cruella DeVil’s fate was no longer in his control. Anita Dearly had stolen it from him from her own intuition. 

He could hear Roger shouting for her. He could hear the policeman’s hasty footsteps in pursuit. He could hear opening and slamming doors. Breaking from his paralysis, Alonso ran into the house and on instinct, ran towards Cruella DeVil’s boudoir. 

He had been too late. 

Both doors had been swung open, and there standing in the middle of her boudoir staring down at the torn up pages of the Skinner’s notebook was Anita Dearly. Alonso heard Roger and the officer stop in their pursuit behind him as they stared. She lifted the pieces into her hands; her eyes widening in shock. She had seen her own name on the paper. Anita took the broken piece within her fist and pressed it to her breast. Roger pushed Alonso aside and ran to his wife’s side; she had begun to shake with impending tears. She broke into sobs, turning into Roger’s arms as she cried onto his shoulders, the tremors seeming to shake her to the core. 

Alonso’s heart broke. 

Yet despite this he could feel it. He could sense his own heart begging him to put the question before his own conscience; why. What was it that had hurt Lenora DeVille so deeply that only suffering on this deep, inhuman level could rectify her heart? 

Before he could say a word, before he could even try to save the streak of vindictive actions from Anita Dearly to her mind by explaining himself the actions of Cruella DeVil’s heart, the officer stepped forward and took the evidence from her hands. He spoke into a receiver. He issued an immediate warrant for the arrest of Cruella DeVil, and a team to report immediately to his location with a search warrant. 

He wanted to shout out his apologies. He wanted to beg Anita to reconsider her punishment if in fact they could stop her in time. If she could be stopped, Alonso realized, everything could be explained. He realized that information was in his possession, and if in the time they took to stop her in her pursuit, he could explain everything to Anita Dearly, than, and only then, might she be spared from the isolation of prison.

“She’s gone.” He began to cry out. “She’s left for Suffolk---I d-d-don’t know what is there, but it m-must be important! I don’t know what to do.” Alonso said pitifully. He had been wrung dry of tears, battered in the course of a single night by the thrust and parry of every emotion his heart had ever known, that all of his intellect and cohesion had been drained from him. He couldn’t betray Cruella DeVil by explaining what, in his own mind, he had known to be her motivation to the officers. If only he could speak to Anita alone he began to wish. 

Still crying on the shoulders of Roger, Anita turned her face to look back at Alonso standing at the door. 

Alonso looked into her eyes. He saw nothing left which could be reasoned with Anita’s pain. Alonso knew at once nothing he could say could earn her forgiveness. Both had taken their actions, one against the other, and no interference on his neutral part could rectify what was to come. 

Alonso had no idea how much more hurt his mind and body could endure. He watched helpless as officers invaded the doors of her boudoir, once the most exclusive and intimate of settings within the entirety of the mansion, and search her belongings with the ferocity of bloodhounds seeking out the scent of a convict. Her beautiful, treasured clothes and furs, molested with no sense of delicacy. Than in an action he never anticipated, one of the officers pulled out the magnificent tiger pelt by the head from a silver chest hidden in her closet.

“Sir, you had better come and see this.” He said firmly. The two men convened. He could not hear what they had whispered to each other. Than nodding assuredly, gestured to the entrance of the chamber.

“Take this in as evidence. I want samples from Su-Linq, contact the Metropolitan Zoo at once.” 

Alonso’s breath caught in his throat. What was there left? He asked himself. It was more than the theft of the Dearly’s dogs that would now come down on the retribution of Cruella DeVil. 

Lessons were hard to be learned on a woman like Cruella, Alonso thought to himself, perhaps it was a long overdue course of actions to break her of her criminal tendencies with a proper spell in prison.

Exhausted, Alonso admitted defeat. 

Wandering through the house filled with officers, Alonso walked in silence to the front door and looked out at the expanse of cars filling her once vacant driveway. He stared out across the black horizon. Snowflakes were beginning to fall around him. He leaned against the doorway, watching the officer speaking with the Dearly’s who huddled together. There were no sounds to him. He ignored them all. He saw the last two prosperous, maddening, delightful, entertaining, perplexing, taxing, and fulfilling years of his life flash   
before his eyes. 

It was over.


	22. Dawn

Alonso couldn’t even face leaving his room. Not a winks sleep had been enjoyed by him. He couldn’t face the papers, couldn’t bear to watch the exposure spread across the channels and pages of London’s newscasts. After the officers had at last left the house, which was close to two in the morning, Alonso had locked himself in his room. 

The house was silent.

The rear doorbell had never rung; Roland the chef no doubt stayed home when the word of her arrest had reached his ears.

He could not even imagine what the House of DeVil was experiencing. Who, if anyone, had reported to their design station ready and willing to work, awaiting the sight of their muse and master to strut down the carpeted runway to her office. 

Suddenly he was started out of his thoughts by the distant sound of ringing. It was a telephone. Alonso stepped to his door. He could her it chiming. He opened the door and walked down the hallway to her chamber. Still pained to see its disarray from the night’s investigations he instead locked his gaze to the phone. It was still resting on her bed. He ran over to it and picked it up, unknown as to what or whose voice would be at the other end.

“Hello?” Alonso said gently, his voice hoarse.

“Is this Alonso? Ms. DeVil’s valet?” An old man’s voice bellowed from the speaker. 

“Yes-

“This is Mr. Torte, solicitor to the DeVil family; I want you to listen very carefully. Ms. DeVil has given me specific instructions to the following actions to be taken immediately during the duration of her sentencing and imprisonment-

Alonso felt his heart sink further into his chest. He had to face the fact. But as he was trying to face it, the sudden realization of the words the solicitor had spoken awakened his response. 

Instructions

He clung to them. With eager ears he set the phone back against his ear.

“You are to relay the word that Frederick and Jean-Christian Emmanuel are to head the design team for the present time. Roland may be sent home. The estate in Suffolk after the police had finished their investigation is to be put to auction at the earliest date; my own team will handle the details of that but asked that you deliver the deed yourself to our office; she said you knew where the deed was. Then, she instructed me to tell you that you are to remain in your post.” 

Alonso saw sunrise begin to fill the open windows. The drapes had been pushed aside when the officers had searched and now, for the first time, natural light filled in the darkened corners of Cruella’s chambers.

“But…but-

“She says you may put the car in storage and maintain it as you see fit but to make sure that the estate is kept in proper order until her return.”

“Sir-

“A monthly allowance from her estate will be set aside for this purpose. Is forty thousand pounds a year sufficient?” 

Alonso felt his knees go weak beneath him. He sat on the bed, reeling from the shock. 

“Hello?” Mr. Torte shouted. 

“Yes-“ Alonso replied hastily. “Yes-yes that is s-sufficient.”

“Very well. I must be at the courthouse in quarter to an hour I trust you need no further information?” He spoke forthrightly. The man was a solicitor with every syllable; his voice so clear and precise it made Alonso jealous to listen. “These come from Ms. DeVil herself and she said if there is any imputation or defiance of these instructions she will be most heartily disappointed!” 

“Yes, sir” Alonso replied, feeling happiness start to return and fill the fractures his heart had sustained. 

He heard the line drop on the other end. An open dial tone sounded into his right ear. 

Alonso set the phone back down onto the base. 

Pride returned to his chest with his inhalation. He looked out over the boudoir newly illuminated by the sun’s rays. The conviction and belief of the existence of Lenora DeVille’s heart had at once, and after long last, been revealed to him with a single command. 

He stared across the room. 

“I expect everything to be as I have left it.” He heard Cruella DeVil’s voice in his ears. 

Alonso, feeling as though he had been born again, left the bed and walked to the center of the empty boudoir. He saw fault everywhere. Smiling broadly, he lifted the strewn clothes from the floor with increasing determination; feeling his heart beginning to race with delight as he laid them across his arms feeling no burden from their weight. 

There was work to be done. 

 

Finis


End file.
